


The Chains of Despair

by SunsetOfDoom, The_Son_of_Dathomir



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Qui-gon, Blood, Ear Piercings, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Gen, Gore, Implied/Reference Sexual Slavery, Padawan Obi-Wan, Zygerria au, dark au, jedi apprentice compliant, of the unhygienic variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-02-04 09:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 69,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12768423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunsetOfDoom/pseuds/SunsetOfDoom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Son_of_Dathomir/pseuds/The_Son_of_Dathomir
Summary: A people enslaved! Jedi Apprentice Obi-Wan Kenobi and his Master Qui-Gon Jinn are sent to locate the abducted Togrutan colonists. The Jedi team manages to infiltrate the slaver planet of Zygerria, only for Obi-Wan to be captured by its cruel queen.  Now, even Obi-Wan Kenobi must come to terms with a life in chains....





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to "Jedi Apprentice: Chains of Despair". This story takes place in the Jedi Apprentice timeline shortly after the events of "The Call to Vengeance" and follows the initial plot of "Slaves of the Republic" from the The Clone Wars. 
> 
> Fair warning for what's ahead, this is a very dark story and no one is in for a fun time. That being said, this is still a T rated fic and if you came here for non-con, I'm sorry to disappoint. However if you came here for crippling angst and sadness then you're in luck!
> 
> You can find us at sunsetofdoom.tumblr.com and the-son-of-dathomir.tumblr.com where we are both happy to talk!

 

Qui-Gon sat in the small ship's even smaller briefing room and unseeingly watched information scroll by on his datapad.  

They had just entered the Chorlian sector, and already their vessel had been scanned, their manifest demanded and their transponder codes scrutinized.

Though the Chorlian sector and the inhabited planets within were technically part of the Republic, the system remained closed to outsiders. Patrol ships with weapons of questionable legality ran circuits through the space, confronting any vessels crossing their border.

One such patrol ship had already latched onto Qui-Gon’s freighter the moment it left neutral space. The hail was immediate and unwelcoming.

Obligingly Qui-Gon responded, stating their destination and purpose with total calm.  

There was an audible pause from the inquiring patrol officer, the silent sound of information being passed and Qui-Gon's ship codes being reviewed again.

But with no hesitancy in her voice, the patrol officer resumed and cleared them for temporary landing at the Zygerrian port. The codes for entering space lanes and hangar bays were transmitted to Qui-Gon’s vessel with no comment.

Another pause of silence on the radio, and then the patrol officer informed him that she would be escorting them through atmosphere. And while not unheard of, it did not bode well.

With the ship now on autopilot, its destination locked in, Qui-Gon had a few precious moments peace before the mission began.

Sitting across from Qui-Gon in the briefing room was Jedi Master Io Malik, their support on this mission. He was still occupied reviewing the final mission details and giving last minute advice to Obi-Wan. Malik seemed determined to impart as much wisdom as he could before they landed and Zygerria’s planetary jammers forced radio silence.   

Qui-Gon ignored the mission review. For all the fuss it was a simple assignment. By way of backroom politics Qui-Gon prefered to be ignorant of, the chancellor had authorized the Jedi to investigate Zygerria covertly. An investigation, Qui-Gon thought, long overdue.

He had no doubt that Zygerria had many dark secrets. But regardless of what other crimes Qui-Gon might discover during the investigation, the Senate had made it clear that they would only listen if Qui-Gon completed his main task- locating the allegedly kidnapped Togrutan colonists.

Only complete and total visual confirmation on the Togruta colonists and their leader, Octoga Ree, would be cause for the Republic to act.  

Qui-Gon had his doubts that they would find these lost colonist- especially if they approached the mission by conventional means. His instruction from the council was to maintain a low profile, simply observe and not engage. But Qui-Gon knew they would make no progress that way. There was a time to be patient- but that time was not now.  

He looked again to Io Malik, known to most as simply The Shadow. His long career of undercover missions and his Clawdite nature earning him the moniker. Qui-Gon’s eyes fell then on Obi-Wan, the boy clearly excited and eager to begin the mission.

Qui-Gon tried to dismiss his wave of irritation. He had hoped by now that Obi-Wan would have grown out of this childishness, his habit of seeing assignments as simple games or adventures. The fact that lives hung in the balance should have been something Obi-Wan had learned long ago.

And perhaps if he had, things on New Apsolon would have turned out different...

Though he fought the feeling, Qui-Gon knew now he regretted his own choices on that mission as well. He wished he had simply pushed forwards on his own and allowed Obi-Wan to deal with the consequences of his mistakes. The boy would have been able to catch up and would have learned a valuable lesson as well. But instead, Qui-Gon had waited for him and borne the punishment of his apprentice’s carelessness as well. In doing so, he had wasted precious time.

And ultimately, Tahl had paid the price.

Qui-Gon promised he wouldn't make that mistake again. Wouldn't allow his affection for his Padawan to cloud his judgement any longer.

Obi-Wan was a Jedi and it was time Qui-Gon started treating him like one. This was their first mission since New Apsolon. Qui-Gon anticipated a rocky start, but an undercover mission seemed almost a blessing. They would put on costumes and, for a few days, be something other than Master and Padawan.

While Qui-Gon mused, The Shadow was quizzing Obi-Wan a final time. Rapid fire questions, ranging from facts about star systems parsecs away, to what he had eaten for his last meal, to the emergency codes for contacting the second Jedi team.

Obi-Wan didn't flinch under the barrage. Effortlessly switching between topics, able to name all the moons of Iego in one breath and all the types of muffins in the ship's food storage in the next. Qui-Gon could see the pleased looked on his Padawan’s face, but it didn't last, and Obi-Wan inevitably stumbled.

The Shadow abruptly switched his tone, going from critical and argumentative (debating Obi-Wan on the sustainability of tibanna gas mining) to conversational, asking him how he had enjoyed last night's meal.

It was a near imperceptible falter, but Qui-Gon had heard this particular lie from Obi-Wan too often.

“It was fine,” Obiwan remarked.

“What did you have?” The Shadow pressed, sensing a crack and digging in.

“Paricha root stew.” Obiwan tried to match the Shadow’s friendly tone, but his words were becoming clipped with agitation.

“Paricha? Isn't that out of season?”

“ _Freeze-dried_ ,” Obi-Wan insisted, his tone slipping and irritation bleeding through.

Disappointed, but not surprised, Qui-Gon held up a hand and they stopped.

Malik shook his head. “Don't lie when you don't have to, Padawan Kenobi. You know this.”

Obi-Wan nodded dutifully, expression impassable but unable to disguise the faint flush on his face from the reprimand.  

“Go get dressed,” Qui-Gon cut in, dismissing him abruptly.  

Obi-Wan gave a quick glance to The Shadow, who nodded his agreement, and Obi-Wan slipped from the briefing room. He took the box containing his costume for the undercover role.

There was a pause, Obi-Wan’s footsteps fading from hearing, and then Malik spoke.

“He is not ready,” Malik moved closer to Qui-Gon, keeping his voice pitched low, “Not for this mission.”

Qui-Gon glanced up briefly.

“If all goes well, he won't have to speak at all,” Qui-Gon said, then dryly added, “I'm rather looking forward to it.”

“This is not a joke, Master Jinn. If you are separated from your student- I cannot guarantee his safety. He is not prepared for what might happen.”

“How far can he wander?” Qui-Gon responded, no less amused, gesturing at the false shock collar and leash which lay amongst his own collection of mission items. “Besides, Master Malik,” he went on, tone darkening, “he's old enough to take care of himself. He’s a Jedi, not a child.”

Malik narrowed his eyes, shaking his head.

“It is possible for him to be both. And it is a child that he will be playing the role of.”

“We will be fine,” Qui-Gon said with finality, rising from his seat and taking his own mission supplies  in hand.

The Shadow caught him in a critical gaze, clearly unhappy at his dismissal.

“I have no doubts that you, Master Jinn, will play your role quite well. But I worry that your Padawan will not know how to shed this skin. Do not let him out of your sight- or you may not recognize him when you see him again.” Malik raised his hand to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “If you see him again at all.”

Qui-Gon moved to exit the briefing room.

“Trust me, he is not so easy to get rid of. He will play his part just fine.”

________________________________________

 

Obi-Wan Kenobi was fifteen years of age, and he’d never worn something this _soft_ before.

He’d felt his way through the tangle of dark blue silk, finding holes for head and arms, in much more time than he really needed to, pausing to stroke the sleek fabric as he tried to clasp and tie it correctly. It was a long ride, and he had no desire to be on the bridge of the ship as they flew.

Once he had it on- he thought, tugging on an errant tie and wondering where it was supposed to attach to- he turned. In the mirror was a strangely lovely young creature, a sharp-boned slip of a teenaged boy with a confident tilt to his head, draped in decadent blue silk that highlighted his lean body and brought out the blue of his eyes.

He felt- strange. A Jedi was not meant to court vanity in their appearance. Even when compliments on his body made him flush, it was at least with a certain amount of shame at his own enjoyment. The boy in the mirror looked like he _knew_ he was lovely, and used it at any turn. If it wasn’t for the braid, the boy in the mirror might not even be a Jedi Padawan, and where would he be then?

_Probably, I’d be right where I’m going now,_ he thought wryly. He dug through the little box of jewelry he’d been handed- apparently it all had meaning, and wasn’t just pretty bangles. Such-and-so for _free-born_ , this-and-that for _untrained._ A number of silver bangles for his age, something something to indicate virginity or newness or.... He flushed, swallowing hard. This wasn’t just dress-up jewelry. It was a collar tag, written in deceptively pretty decoration.

He laddered the bangles up and down his arms, enjoying the pleasant noises they made knocking together, and tucked the pretty lizard-shaped cuff around the top of his ear. There was a pendant as well, though it hung low so it wouldn’t touch the false shock collar that Qui-Gon had waiting for him when they left the ship, and a complex net of chains and stones that he realized was to go over his hair and drape down his forehead.

His lips pursed in the mirror as he realized that now was the time. Fingers unsure, he took the braid he was so proud of- proficiency bands in _two_ colors at the base- and pinned and twined it back into his little nerf-tail, hiding it, keeping it safe.

Draping the crown of fine silver chains over his head, he looked back up to find a beautiful, wide-eyed little catamite, and not a Jedi Padawan.

He wasn’t really sure how the catamite, or the Padawan, were meant to feel about it, but Obi-Wan felt lovely to look at, oddly inhuman, and incredibly uneasy.

 -

The slippers he wore- also silk, very soft but impractical as anything- were silent against the cold floors of the transport as he made his way to the doors. They were almost to the ground, he could feel the telltale shudder of the metal all around him.

The air against his exposed skin was unnerving; his Padawan robes were layered, often too much in warmer climates. He was almost never so... naked. (He tried not to think about the slits in the skirt that went an _indecent_ way up his hips.) The ship was much colder than it had seemed when he was fully clothed.

The cargo bay was wide, and Qui-Gon looked strange among the boxes; now out of his robes, in a rugged trader’s outfit, he was more intimidating, seeming even taller somehow. With his hair messily braided in a style that looked almost like his friend Quinlan’s, he might as well be someone entirely different from the man Obi-Wan had lived with for years.

Even the look on his face was almost foreign, hard-set in unsympathetic annoyance. But it was becoming more common, after the passing of his dearest friend, Tahl Uvain.

“Come here,” Qui-Gon’s loud voice called. It echoed through the quiet loading bay, and Obi-Wan almost jumped. “Last preparations before the mission.”

“Yes Master.” Obi-Wan replied, hurrying over.

Qui-Gon picked something up that lay on the box next to him- a metal circlet, of the model Obi-Wan had seen in their mission briefing. It was functional- it broadcast a signal, it had a tracker, all the lights worked- but for its intended purpose; it wouldn’t shock him. It would vibrate when he was meant to act pained, but that was all.

(Through the lack of sleep he’d gotten the night before, that had been his constant: _they can’t hurt me. It’s not like Bandomeer. They can’t really shock me._ )

With it, however, was something that hadn’t been in the briefing- a silver chain that matched his jewelry. A leather loop on one end and a clasp on the other. His stomach dropped.

“Oh, _Master_ .” He stepped back, offended. “A _leash_?”

Qui-Gon gave him a dry look. “With the amount you run off, I’ve been looking for an excuse to use one for years.”

Obi-Wan chewed on his lip, not admitting that he was pouting. “I am not an animal.”

Slamming the leash down with a noise that echoed, Qui-Gon turned to frown at him, stern and forbidding, and Obi-Wan shrank with a quick half-step back.

Qui-Gon turned back away, his eyes darting guiltily, taking the collar’s clasp apart with studied care. “It’s necessary. I know it wasn’t in the briefing, but it is customary for those who aren’t trained.” He gestured with the thin silver collar. “Here.”

Stepping closer, Obi-Wan raised his chin, still gnawing on his bottom lip. Qui-Gon’s large hands were warm, but the metal of the collar was cold against the tender skin at the base of his neck. It clicked shut, and he swallowed down his nerves.

He breathed, in and out, making his muscles relax and his mind still.

Qui-Gon smiled down at him, a tiny and rare thing in the last few months, and took a short lock of red hair between two large figures, tugging on it like ringing a bell. “You’ll do well.”

The promise made Obi-Wan smile back, but it faded as Qui-Gon turned back to get the leash. And its connection to his collar felt... wrong. Qui-Gon kept the line slack, but he could still feel the weight of the chain, how it pulled down on the collar at his neck.

Qui-Gon studied him a little, and Obi-Wan made eye contact with his Master, reminding himself not to do so once they opened the doors. There was a moment of connection, vague feelings of dread and determination passing through the Force.

And then Qui-Gon depressed the buttons to open the transport door, and Obi-Wan arranged himself- head down, feet shoulder-width apart, two paces behind Qui-Gon (which made his leash pull taut). Demure and servile and...

He felt sick as they descended the ramp into the shipyard.

-

The markets below the Palace were loud and crowded. Obi-Wan kept his eyes down, and tried not to hear or see any of his surroundings.

The ground was hard-packed dirt, and the dust of it floated up into the air, making the rare beams of sunlight that crossed his vision look almost solid. There were puddles and indentations and he watched them carefully, trying to care for the stupid, thin silk slippers.

( _“Get up, slug, you’re clearly not worth what I paid for!” came a shout from a few meters behind them, and the sound of a shock collar activating- and the strangled noise that followed- made Obi-Wan stumble._ )

There were also standard market-smells- meat frying, vegetables cooking, spices heavy in the air mingling with the smell of too many people crammed into too little space. He heard the distinct, rhythmic _clank_ , _rattle_ , and _scrape_ of something being fried in an enormous wok; there was a little place on Coruscant that did that, and it had a low window where children always gathered to watch the enormous Bothan shake the huge metal pan. He focused on the familiar sound, trying not to hear other, worse noises from further away. He was so used to taking in everything about his environment; noticing how many flowers were on a vine, how many times the cricket chirped, because Jedi training demanded it. But now he wished he could hear less. So much less.

( _He tried not to hear the screaming as they passed by, but it came to his ears anyways. “No- Master, please, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything- not my daughter- Mila, Mila-” “Anything? I warned you about your behavior, if you’d listened you might’ve kept your screaming babe.” The wailing sound of a child crying seemed to make no difference to anything but Obi-Wan’s stomach churning, the crowd thickening behind them as it became fainter in the distance._ )

He was so focused on not stumbling, not falling into the frequent puddles of dirty water, that he almost didn’t notice when they stopped, nearly crashing into Qui-Gon as a result.

Now he felt the danger that his Master must have already sensed. Figures detaching from the mass of market goers and surging towards them.

Obi-Wan fought the urge to shift into a fighting stance, instead allowing himself to shrink further into his Master's shadow, willing the Force to make him appear small and weak.

“Identification,” the nearest figure barked, “I don't recognize you.”

Obi-Wan wasn't sure what had already singled them out in such a mass of peoples, but perhaps the busy market was more of an illusion than he had first assumed. Maybe this wasn't merely the bustling trade post of wanders it first appeared to be...

Qui-Gon’s voice was low but loud in the crowded market, easy to pick out. “My privacy is valuable, I don’t have identification, besides, this is a public market.”

“This is the Queen’s Market, on Palace grounds- not a place one wanders into by accident. If you refuse to identity yourself, you will be removed and charged with trespassing on royal property.”

Qui-Gon seemed to weigh his options. Too many guards surrounded them, if they fought or ran it would make make a scene.

“The Queen’s market,” Qui-Gon repeated thoughtfully, much to the obvious annoyance of the guard. “Perhaps I can take this matter up with the Lady herself, then.”

“You can _what?_ ” The guard sounded shocked, and Obi-wan saw as several more pairs of armored feet step closer to them. He shut his eyes. _Master, what have you gotten us into now?_

“You will bring me for audience with Her Majesty,” the movement of Qui-Gon's arm told Obi-Wan his Master has just employed a mind trick to persuade their enemy. And then for the benefit of any other onlookers, he continued with some forced bravado.  “If I am to be charged I would have an honest trial for my _crime_ of being in a _public_ market!”

His statement hung in the air for a moment, the Force suggestion still worming it's way into the guard's mind. For a moment, Obi-Wan was sure it had failed and their gambit was up.

“You-  can’t possibly-” another guard spluttered for a moment, hissing between his teeth, caught between confusion and anger at Qui-Gon's sheer audacity.

“Stand down, Kit.” The first guard spoke again, there was an uncomfortable shuffling in the armored legs that Obi-Wan could see. “The trespasser wants an audience with the Queen? _Fine._ I will bring him for an audience- I will enjoy watching our Queen punish him for his crimes. _And_ his _insolence.”_

__________________________________________

 

“ _Master,”_ Obi-Wan hissed softly when he thought their armed escorts had fallen far enough behind as not to overhear them. Obi-Wan was sure they were being lead into a trap, no doubt the security forces had already realized that they were not who they claimed to be, all that was left was to determine was if they were simply trespassers- or spies. “Master, we should signal the-” but his sentence was cut off when Qui-Gon firmed his grip on the already taut slave leash. With surprising harshness, the cold metal jerked at his throat, Qui-Gon’s action silencing his voice more than the actual pressure of the collar. Obi-Wan slipped back into quiet submission, aware that the guards were watching their every move.  

Obi-Wan’s Jedi training had taught him to walk and act with a confidence he rarely felt, and it was with an odd sort of comfort that he now allowed himself to be lead by his Master with eyes downcast through the palace halls. As such, Obi-Wan had barely noticed the change in their surroundings and was surprised by the sudden awareness that they had reached the throne room of the Zygerrian Queen.  

Obi-Wan could sense that there were several beings watching them now, though he couldn’t risk any visible signs of inquiry or investigation, a brief exploration in the Force told him enough.

The room was large with a high ceiling. There were four guards with them now, two behind and two ahead. Between the two guards was a new presence- and it made Obi-Wan shudder.

He was often told his greatest failing as a Jedi was an inability to connect with the Living Force; that he was frequently blind to other creatures’ natures or intents.

But there was no ambiguity in the nature of the creature ahead of him and no uncertainty in Obi-Wan’s mind of her intent. This was the Zygerrian Queen, the cruel mistress of this slave empire. Though he didn’t dare look, Obi-Wan could feel the moment her gaze moved across him. With eyes Obi-Wan couldn't even see, she managed to make him feel more dehumanized than the outfit or even the collar.

If Qui-Gon felt the same intense cruelty in her, he made no sign.

When the Queen spoke, it was with a brittle clipped voice.

“Who are you who come before me?”  

“I am Tal Kilser, Your Highness.” Qui-Gon spoke with ease, dipping his head in the cool polite fashion that did little to suggest actual submission. Beside him, Obi-Wan hurried to bow deeper, unsure what deference was demanded in her presence. Meeting the queen hadn't  been covered in his mission brief.

But he was paid little mind as the queen addressed his Master.                          

“My guards tell me you are here for the public market.” The woman did not disguise the obvious suspicion in her voice. “Yet you were found trespassing on my palace grounds with no invitation- and still you have _audacity_ to demand an audience with me- to plead your case to me in person rather than simply accept my guards’ gracious offer to be escorted off this planet. I have to admit, I’m curious to hear what dishonesty is so important for you to spin, that you risk standing in my presence to do so.”

Silently, Obi-Wan had to admit he was thinking much the same thing. Their mission was to observe, nothing more. To gather what information they could without raising suspicion that the Republic was investigating the Zygerrians. If the Queen even began to suspect they were Jedi the Togruta colonists would be lost. Sent into the depths of the Kessel mines, likely dead before the Republic ever found them.

But despite Obi-Wan’s misgivings, Qui-Gon spoke smoothly.

“I’m no fool, your Highness, there is nothing for sale in that market that interests me- and I’m sure you feel much the same. I came here, to your palace, in the hopes we could discuss more interesting business.”

While Qui-Gon talked, Obi-Wan had found a discrete reflection to watch. The whole room was adorned with bright metals and reflective colored glass. Even with his downcast eyes, Obi-Wan had found a low table with mirrored edges that gave him a clear view of the Zygerrian Queen.

She was smiling.

“You’re a slaver?” She said with unbridled incredulity.

Qui-Gon nodded.

So busy was Obi-Wan watching the scene in the nearby mirror, he missed Qui-Gon’s movement right next to him.

Obi-Wan stumbled more with shock than pain when Qui-Gon gave the leash a vicious tug. The force brought him forwards and down, nearly causing him to collapse in front of Qui-Gon. But the same leash that nearly toppled him, also held him up.

“I thought to auction this away tonight,” Qui-gon said easily, “but if it would bring me any of your good grace, I would be happy to gift it to you instead.”

Without thinking, Obi-Wan spun his head back to his Master, his eyes seeking his face, hoping to read some sign of insincerity there. In the same instant he poured out his worry into their connection, desperate to feel some flicker of reassurance from his Master that he would protect him- that he wouldn’t allow this thing to happen.

But Qui-Gon was like a wall, his face completely unreadable and his presence in the Force merely a cold void. Though Obi-Wan was sure he heard it, Qui-Gon made no response to his Padawan’s desperate mental cry.

“ _Master-”_ The word tumbled out, familiar but somehow different now. The title had only been spoken with the utmost respect and veneration within the Temple walls. It was word younglings and Padawans found comfort and safety in- long before they knew of such concepts as slavery.

Obi-Wan never imagined he could speak the word with such sick fear, never thought he would feel such coldness from the one he called _Master_.

“ _Silence,”_ Qui-Gon snapped, the anger and irritation radiating off him more than an act. Obi-Wan felt the collar bite into the back on his neck again as his head was pulled down. Above him Qui-Gon continued to speak with the Queen.

“And where, pray tell, did you find this one?” The Queen asked, some of her skepticism gone, replaced now with genuine curiosity.     

“Quite by accident,” he assured her, their rapport growing, “A slave on Bandomeer who I happened to see at an auction. However, none of the Masters were interested, it was scheduled to be sent away to the ocean mining platforms that night if no one would buy it,” Qui-Gon smiled, “but I thought that would be a waste- surely it was good for something.”

The Queen responded with a light laugh, “Yes, surely.”

Obi-Wan knew he was shaking. The words that Qui-Gon spoke so closely mirrored his truth, that it was hard not feel their sting. In some small logical thought, Obi-Wan tried to calm himself. Lies always came more easily when mixed with truth- his Master was simply keeping them safe. He had to lie fluidly and with confidence if the wanted to avoid suspicion- it was only logical for his Master to draw on some truths from his past.

“Perhaps you will discover a use for it,” Qui-Gon pressed. “I’m afraid it hasn’t been much good to me.”

“Very well,” the Queen said after a long pause, “I’m not one to pass up a perfectly good slave.”

At the words, Obi-Wan felt his building panic turn to dread. He had held out hope that his Master had a clever ploy- a trick or a scheme- to save them both. But as Qui-Gon proffered his end of the leash to the approaching Queen, Obi-Wan felt his stomach drop.

Fear flooded his mind and Obi-Wan could feel the cold ocean spray of Bandomeer and the heavy weight of the collar on his neck.

_I won't go back- I can’t go back! We have to stay together_.

He felt like a child again, reliving the crushing despair of Qui-Gon rejecting him, being told to leave behind everything he had ever known to board a transport to a foreign world. It had been so unbearable that Obi-Wan had risked everything to prove himself worthy of Qui-Gon, and had nearly died in the process.

But Obi-Wan knew now, he would rather have been dead, than alive and without a Master on Bandomeer.  Life before Qui-Gon was something that he couldn’t face going back to.

Heedless of the tight leash, Obi-Wan spun to face Qui-Gon, the words spilling out in a panic before he could be silenced again. He held no fear of the Council now- the thought of being spirited away into some mining system with no possibility of a successful rescue reached down into his very bones and turned them to ice. If he could blow their cover, then he and Qui-Gon would figure something out. Fight their way out as a team like they were meant to, they’d done it before, he couldn’t just be _left alone-_

“Master! You _can’t-_ this isn’t right! I wouldn't be able t-”

The blow came with such speed and suddenness, Obi-Wan had barely registered the movement before he found himself half splayed across the floor between his Master and the slaver queen.

Obi-Wan barely felt the pain of the strike, and hardly felt the floor under him. The whole scene suddenly felt slow and unreal, his mind working to catch up with what had just happened.

Qui-Gon had hit him. Hit him with a force and an anger Obi-wan couldn't pretend was anything less than genuine.

All thoughts of escape left Obi-Wan. He could have fought the guards, would have challenged the Queen. But what lay between him and his freedom... was Qui-Gon. And Obi-Wan wasn’t sure he knew how to fight that.

He didn't move in the moments after, allowed his body to stay in the crumpled, half curled position he had landed in. His face was down turned- he didn’t want to see Qui-Gon’s expression.

“It might not be up to your standards yet,” Qui-Gon said flatly.

The Queen tutted softly. “You should really know better than to damage the merchandise, Ser Kilser.”

“This slave needs to learn its place,” Qui-Gon responded in an even tone.

“And it will. Guards, take this slave to reconditioning,” The Queen said, her voice smugly amused. The sound of footsteps moved towards Obi-wan.

He couldn’t stop himself from feeling for his Master one more time in the Force. Hoping that in these last moments before they were separated he would send some warm energies to comfort him- to apologize, to beg him to understand.

But there was nothing. Just the cold wall Obi-Wan had sensed from his Master since the start of this mission- and maybe even earlier than that. No comfort, no compassion. Whatever Obi-Wan was about to endure, he would have to endure it alone.                           

 

________________________________________     

 

Qui-Gon Jinn felt a tiny tremor in his heart as the guards picked the boy up off the floor to take him away. He tried not to think, tried not to imagine the bright red mark on Obi-Wan’s face that would soon blossom into a bruise. For now he had to play Tal Kilser, had to be unemotional. He had to act as though he did this all the time.

Force knew he’d had the urge to. Something dark in him whispered that at least the boy had _stopped talking_ for once.

“Ser Kilser,” the Queen purred, coming closer as the guards dragged a still-stunned Obi-Wan out the door and Qui-Gon could only assume the boy would find some way to escape, “I think we’ll find an enduring partnership between ourselves.”

“I hope so, Your Highness,” he said on autopilot. He forced himself not to let his eyes track Obi-Wan out of the room.

_What did he just do?_ He’d raised hand to his Padawan- no. Tal Kilser had raised a hand to a disobedient slave. That was how he had to think of it, or this mission would collapse around his ears. Qui-Gon Jinn would never hit his Padawan, not when they were in no condition to hit back.

The Queen was talking about some business ventures, and he allowed his mind to absorb her information while he considered his own moral quandaries. Xanatos had started physical fights, the hotheaded youth not knowing what he needed or wanted, striking out in frustration more than once, and Qui-Gon had defended himself. Obviously.

He’d never thought that he might have to do such a thing with _Obi-Wan,_ who was so... He was deferential, to a point and with an edge, but his insolence was always just barely under the line of acceptable, cloaked in enough respect that Qui-Gon had no recourse against his sharp-tongued charge. It drove Qui-Gon mad some days- more so, after Tahl’s death, after Obi-Wan’s constant and maddening insistence on _arguing,_ on taking up _precious time._ He admitted to himself that he had been growing more impatient with the boy for months.

The Queen of Zygerria’s slave empire turned to him with a crafty smile. “Don’t you agree?”

“Of course, Highness,” he responded on instinct. “We must prepare ourselves, the Republic’s tyranny over our personal gains grows daily.”

She narrowed her eyes, apparently placated by his accurate response. Luckily his training was so great that he could listen and respond while staying mired in his own thoughts.

Had the hit truly been so bad? He’d been unable to pull his arm, unwilling to risk a gentler hit being questioned. But Obi-Wan had borne worse injuries in his apprenticeship with nothing but grim silence. The boy was hardened by battle and experience, used to blaster shots and the shockwaves of explosions- even lightsaber burns had become commonplace to them both after battling Xanatos. An open-handed strike was not _so_ much, compared to such injuries.

They had been prepared for this when they went undercover. Qui-Gon had even been looking forward to losing himself in another identity, forgetting his own daily frustrations in the skin of Tal Kilser, who did not have to deal with guilt or grief or prying Padawans. And he could not let Obi-Wan endanger the undercover mission, or the colonists they were tracking. So, in the manner only an uncivilized slaver like Tal Kilser could, he’d raised hand to his student.

Xanatos, he remembered, had _needed_ that sort of physical confrontation. Had pushed Qui-Gon until he’d had no choice but to defend himself against the youth’s aggression. And after, there had always been a brief respite of peace, Xan finally something approaching calm as he treated his bruises with the goal of hiding them from the other Padawans.

But Obi-Wan had never required such blunt discipline; a sharp word was often enough to send the child into an anxious tizzy, to set him hiding and avoiding his own Master.

Words were always Obi-Wan’s battle of choice. He was always arguing, questioning, talking back. Qui-Gon had thought for a moment, watching Obi-Wan’s big blue eyes widen as the former Shadow coached him on his duties as he played a slave, that his stubborn little Padawan might learn silence for once. Apparently not.

He knew that one day Obi-Wan Kenobi would be a wise and strong Jedi Knight. Qui-Gon was confident in this.

But just at this moment, Qui-Gon did not need a mission partner who was a wise, strong, Jedi Knight. He needed an obedient, and moreover _silent,_ Padawan. And it was that which Obi-Wan was incapable of.

Disturbingly hot anger flooded his system at the thought, and Qui-Gon shook himself- unable to meditate to clear it, he resorted to ignoring it in favor of the Queen’s talk.

“And of course, the demand for labor slaves is spiking from some interested parties within the Senate...”

He did not let his surprise show, but privately, Qui-Gon began to think very hard. _The Senate?_ This went deeper than they thought. He would have to investigate.

“Labor slaves, Highness?” he asked. “My business has always been in pleasure slaves. Ought I learn a new trade in these changing times?”

She laughed in a voice dark and syrupy. “Ah, no. Ser Kilser, you must know- always, always will there be demand for pleasure in this harsh galaxy of ours.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” He responded, and he took her outstretched arm. If this really went all the way up to the Senate....

He might have to stay in Tal Kilser’s skin longer than anticipated.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter two!! Things get worse- hope you enjoy!!

The guards’ hands were rough on Obi-Wan’s arms and shoulders, but he hardly felt them. The cage they threw him in was cold, but he didn’t spare a thought to the chill.

He’d spent a long while listening to their near-constant patrols, the thudding rhythm of boots on duracrete beating a tattoo into his brain. He didn’t dare move and he didn’t want to think.

The word _Master_ had been semi-sacred to him since before he learned to walk. Inside the Temple walls, it meant safety and security and unquestionable authority. Being here... It meant something utterly different. The dissonance was overwhelming.

Obi-Wan’s fingers traced the bruise forming on his cheekbone.

It was strange. There had been many times in the last few years, that Obi-Wan had tempted his Master’s temper. Always one quip too many and then his instincts warning him to jump back, so sure that this was it- that he had _finally_ crossed the line. Of course, there was no reason to fear- no Master would _ever_ have raised hand to him in the Temple. The concept was laughable. And yet, when Qui-Gon raised his voice or turned too fast... Obi-Wan flinched.

As much of a surprise as the blow had been, it was in a way a relief. _It had finally happened_. He could stop waiting for it- stop dreading it. It had felt so inevitable in the past months and finally it was here. The proof that Qui-Gon was.... was willing to do what was necessary to complete the mission.

Obi-Wan amended his train of thought. That, of course, was it. Qui-Gon couldn’t possibly risk him terminating the mission. Obi-Wan had been selfish to prioritize himself over the hundreds of lives they were working to save. He could see now that Qui-Gon needed to make him be quiet, keep him from rousing the Queen’s suspicion, and the only way to do so in character was- was...

Obi-Wan rubbed over the center of the bruise, pressing down hard, making it sing with pain.

And _obviously_ Qui-Gon couldn’t risk communication through their bond. Of course he had to keep their connection closed; they always looked at each other when they did it, and there was always something in the air, however faint, that the Queen would probably have picked up from her throne not five feet away. They couldn’t take that chance, not with the colonists somewhere in the facility needing rescue badly.

 _Or not here at all,_ something in his mind contributed unhelpfully. _You’re here for proof this is where they disappeared to. What if it’s not? What if there really is no point to this, no lives to be saved?_

He quashed it, pulling his head down against the cold metal floor of the cage. There _had_ to be a point to this. The colonists were here, somewhere in this facility, and he had to get them out, had to find proof and return it to... to his Master. Or to the Council. He had the emergency comm codes, in case they were separated.

Pulling his other hand out of his silken costume, he felt for the collar at his neck. They’d left the leash attached, splayed across the bottom of the cage, but the metal circlet was warm with his body heat, and he wrapped a hand around it. The collar was false. There was a braid tucked into his hair. He had emergency comm codes to reach the Jedi Council. He _had_ to remember those things, had to remember he _wasn’t_ a slave.

The sound of boots on the metal floor echoed heavily through the huge room, and Obi-Wan curled up tighter. On an afterthought, he yanked the leash back; they wouldn’t be able to grab him from the little door on the front of his cage.

He watched the patrolling feet with wary eyes, curled up in the back of the cage and only just stopping himself from baring his teeth like a dumb beast.

The door at the other end of the hall closed audibly, the patrolling steps that had been sounding rhythmically for almost an hour stopping, and Obi-Wan forced himself to relax. He was not a zoo animal. He was a _Jedi Padawan._ And he was going to get out of here.

First: he had to get out of this cage. Obi-Wan stared at the lock, only a few feet away, a primitive latch along the top of the cage with a more modern-looking electrical relay clumsily soldered on. If he could disconnect the two disparate technologies, then it was possible he could just unlatch his own cage and set himself free... _._

Watching both doors with wary eyes, he rolled onto his hands and knees- the cage being too short to stand in- and moved towards the front of the cage. It felt dangerous- his hind-brain was telling him to stay curled up in the corner, out of reach of the door, to stay safe a little longer, but he focused down onto the little latch atop his cage. There was a weak point in the metal, he felt it in the Force somewhere, but unhelpfully enough it wasn’t specific. He breathed in and out, more quickly than he should, and quieted his mind, asking for guidance. For _something._

Kneeling up until his head brushed the cage’s ceiling, he traced a finger around the electric lock. He could picture it now, finding the metal’s weak spot, shoving the sleek little pod away from the latch, and walking free, ready to find the colonists in the reconditioning system... That had likely been Qui-Gon’s plan the whole time, allowing him to escape and explore on his own. His cheeks flushed. _Stupid. Should have known. Why do I always have to open my stupid mouth_.

Refocusing furiously, he studied the seam between the metal latch and the electric lock, how they might be disengaged. It looked like a patch job, rough and clumsy welding. If he could find the place where they weren’t quite connected...

 _There_. A tiny divot in the metal! Obi-Wan trembled with anticipation, threading his connection to the Force small enough that it could just barely pop the relay free... He added more pressure, so slowly, so gradually, trying terribly hard not to look at the doors, not to think about what would happen if the doors opened and he were seen. It still wasn’t moving. More pressure, just barely, if it flew too far it could make noise-

With a _crack_ , the solder splintered, and the silvery-white metal of the relay lifted off the top of the latch.

Revealing a broken wire.

It was set into the metal of the bars; the whole line of cages was connected.

On the wall, a red light began to blink. Obi-Wan swallowed hard, instinctively reaching for the lightsaber he’d had to leave on the transport, and found only useless silk and jewelry at his hip. He was in a cage that he couldn’t shatter without bringing down stacks of metal on top of him. He was weaponless and shivering and dressed in a few scraps of silk.

The guards’ pounding feet found him curled at the back of his cage, tucked in a corner like a small animal ready to bite. The handle of his leash clutched in his own hand, because if he had it then at least no one else did.

A hand grasped at the lock atop his cage, and a harsh voice barked a laugh.

“Look! This one’s got creative!”

The cage door swung open to general laughter from the small crowd of guards. Obi-Wan tucked his slippered feet even closer to himself, making sure not to be in arm’s reach.

A slim, furry Zygerrian face appeared in the open door, smiling with sharp teeth. “Hello, little one.” The head turned away. “Gimme the shock stick.”

Obi-Wan shut his eyes tight, ready for pain.

It hit him in the shoulder, the sharp tips of the metal pressing hard against his skin, and he was glad he’d already clenched his teeth together or he might have bitten his tongue in half. Over and under the electric pain he could feel his body convulsing, and more than the pain he felt a panic that if he kicked out or moved too much, he could be grabbed.

Almost as an afterthought he realized he could hear noise, probably himself, keening and wailing into the cold and echoing hall. But it didn’t matter. He just had to keep himself wedged into the back of the cage.

“ _Gotcha_!” came a triumphant voice, and the little of Obi-Wan that was holding on was sent into a frenzy- they didn’t have him! How could they! He hadn’t moved! Clenching his jaw harder, he felt the vibrations of his own screams rattling through his teeth.

And then the electricity was gone- and he couldn’t breathe. The pressure on his neck was intense.

 _The collar._ Obi-Wan opened his eyes, dazed, and watched tears drop to the floor of his cage. _The leash. I must have let go_. He gagged as he finally allowed his jaw to relax, and swallowed as hard and as many times as he could. The _last_ thing he wanted to do was throw up in here. His muscles went slack, unconvinced by his frantic orders to move, as the pure relief of _not being in pain_ flooded his nervous system. The pressure at his neck didn’t go away as he felt his limp body being dragged to the front of the cage by his leash.

So as Obi-Wan struggled not to vomit, his captors were free to move him as they wished. A few guards turned him around and held him by the waist and the shoulders, as he felt something being locked around his legs, just under his knees. They were some kind of hard metal cuffs, locked around the divot between the bones of his knees and the swell of his calves.

“Got it?” One of the guards asked.

“Think so,” the other replied, “but give the thing a minute to adjust. We’ll see if it’s still mobile, then sync ‘em up.”

Obi-Wan didn’t quite register the conversation, but he did feel the open air around him as the guards stepped back, and he tried to breathe into still-twitching lungs. Still laying limp on the floor, he tried to gather himself enough to move. Breathing steadily, he tried to _breathe in energy_ the way the meditation instructor always said. All he seemed to be breathing in was more pain.

Eventually he felt in-control enough to attempt a few twitches; his fingers felt fuzzy and far-away, but he managed to clench his fists in and out, and the feeling faded. He got his palms on the metal floor- covered in dirt and grit- and tried to do the same sort of exercise with his feet and toes.

They wouldn’t move. He couldn’t feel them.

A creeping dread welled up in his stomach. He pulled his knees up, pushing down with his palms to look up and around.

His legs were moving strangely- he could move his knees, could appear to crawl. But the metal cuffs seemed to cut off the nerves. Everything below his knees was numb and dead. Not a twitch, no matter how hard he tried to move. He felt his breathing quicken against his will, fear flooding his system. How would he possibly thwart this? Effectively crippled, forced to crawl like an animal? He’d never escape, never see Qui-Gon or the Jedi Temple ever again. Maybe never even _walk_ again if they were permanent.

“What- what a-are these?” He asked through the fear, his voice cracking with stress.

There were amused noises from one or two of the guards, but no one answered him.

“Seems they work. Now we just sync ‘em to the collar.” One of the older voices said. He knelt down next to Obi-Wan, gesturing to another guard to lean in and see, and took the collar between two fingers.

Obi-Wan tried to jerk away. “No! Don’t-”

The second guard took him by the leash, holding his head still.

“Huh,” said the first guard. “Wires aren’t attached. It keeps tampering with its equipment, looks like. Leastways we caught it.”

Obi-Wan tried to shake his head enough to keep the guard from reactivating the shock collar, almost entirely immobile, humiliated and helpless and _scared_ , really honestly scared in a way he hadn’t been since Bandomeer. He couldn’t shake the feeling that once the shock collar was working, it would be _real_ , and he wouldn’t be a Jedi, not ever again.

It didn’t feel like an undercover mission anymore.

The second guard made a low noise in her throat, and Obi-Wan was distracted from his panic. “They’re not permanent,” she said in a soft voice. “You’re not crippled. They come off. Every few days, they take them off to prevent nerve damage.”

He breathed out in a hitching rush, pitifully grateful for the tiny scrap of kindness, and was finally able to let go of his hysteria. They would come off. He would still be able to walk. He would not die here.

“There,” the first guard said as he _clicked_ the collar’s electrical panel shut. “That’ll do it.”

An identical _beep_ came from the collar and the two cuffs around his legs. A small sound escaped Obi-Wan’s throat, something that trembled. They could shock him, now. They could hurt him however they wanted.

“You three,” he said, pointing to the other guards. “Go show the newbie around the patrol. You should see the place from the other side, now you’ve bought your freedom.”

“Yes, Sir,” said the guard who had spoken to Obi-Wan.

“Stay in line or you’ll have it when I get back,” Obi-Wan’s leash-holder continued. “I’ll be delivering this to reconditioning.” He jerked the leash forward, and Obi-Wan fell onto his elbows with a cry. Some of his slave jewelry had already been damaged when the guards had forced him into the cuffs, and finally a few of the chains had broken. Around him jewelry and bangles fell to the ground. The fine mesh of chain in his hair slipped and clattered on the rough stone floor.

Instinctively, Obi-Wan’s hands moved to retrieve the precious stones that had made up his costume. But the guard holding his leash kicked the damaged remnants away.

“Leave it!” The guard snapped like Obi-Wan was a disobedient animal, pulling the leash just tight enough to put a painful pressure on his throat. Obi-Wan heard him mutter to himself, “You’ll be in new chains soon enough.”

With that, the guard just started walking. Obi-Wan tried to scramble, tried to keep up, but his body was still half-numb and he hadn’t tried to crawl with any kind of speed since before he learned to walk. He managed a few paces, tripped, and was dragged along the floor for meters, flailing to get back onto his hands and knees. And three feet away from a guard and within eyesight of a few more, he couldn’t risk using the Force, even to get his knees under him.

Still scrambling a bit, losing his balance, getting one limb under himself and then immediately losing it, they finally got to the end of the hall, where the guard needed to pause to unlock the door. Obi-Wan gasped for air, gratefully pulling himself into order- rearranging his silks so he wasn’t half-falling out of them, and kneeling with some semblance of grace.

His knees were already sore. He tried to stretch a little before they set off again, but it didn’t take more than a few seconds for the eye-scan and the numerical code to go through.

They set off again, and Obi-Wan shuffled awkwardly on his hands and knees, trying hard to keep up. It was exercising muscles in ways he hadn’t really moved them in more than a decade, and he was falling behind.

Dragging his useless legs and feet behind him, he reflected on what he _could_ do with these limitations. He could probably get himself off the ground with the Force. He could summon a jump, if he crouched very low. If he could hoist himself up to standing, he could balance on his unfeeling feet, and if he used the Force with great care, could probably take a few steps.

The guard stopped in front of what looked like a blank wall, and Obi-Wan came to a relieved halt. His knees hurt, rubbed raw and half-bruised already, stuck all over with grit and dirt. His palms were in a similar condition; while they stood still, he sat back, taking a chance to brush the tiny rocks and sand bits out of his hands.

The wall in front of them opened, and Obi-Wan set his hands back down, startled. Inside was a lift tube, in which stood a noble Zygerrian in a long skirt and many jewels. At their heels, perfectly positioned, was a slave in the same cuffs Obi-Wan wore, and he felt a rush of pity and camaraderie. They were in the same position here.

He looked at the other slave, trying to make eye contact and smile, trying for some vague sense of connection to another being. He was starting to think he wasn’t real.

But the other slave- a human girl with long black hair tied back with jewels and delicate chains- turned her nose up. Obi-Wan saw her collar, which wasn’t the metal, electricity-conducting circlet he wore; it was leather, wrapped around her windpipe, thick and warm. _And probably choking,_ he thought to himself.

The noble clicked their tongue, not bothering to look at Obi-Wan or the guard, and the other slave moved gracefully at their heels, her ankles bound up to her thighs with more leather to keep them off the ground. She moved as though she didn’t have anything below her knees, and never needed to stand at all.

Beneath the pity and revulsion, Obi-Wan could almost feel envy. She didn’t look clumsy or ugly. In fact she made crawling look almost regal.

His collar was jerked, and he tottered forward, feeling even more graceless now that he could compare himself to a _real_ pleasure slave.

The guard said nothing to him, only hit a few buttons on the lift, and Obi-Wan studied the tiles of the floor as he heard the buzz of the too-bright lights, and the whirring mechanism of the lift as they went down, and down, and down.

When they emerged, Obi-Wan knew full well they hadn’t actually left the reconditioning facility, though the shiny gold-flecked tiles and ornate furniture were meant to imply otherwise.

It was a stage- a set, merely a few elaborately decorated rooms meant to suggest the sort of palaces and manors where these slaves would ultimately serve. Simply a technique used by the slave-trainers to condition their charges.

When the lift opened on the lush rooms, Obi-Wan could feel the change in temperature, the environment becoming pleasantly warm. He could smell the air system pumping faint aromas of spices and flowers into the hall, and was aware of how the lights had become dimmer and warmer; clearly everything was designed to give the illusion of comfort and safety.

The effect, Obi-Wan thought distantly, was somewhat undermined by the imposing guard who held his leash and was swiftly leading him down the hall. Even with Jedi balance and agility, Obi-Wan struggled to match pace with his keeper while retaining any semblance of grace. Crawling was foreign to his body, and it made strange, unused muscles ache.

In the lift, he’d been able to feel himself blushing. The almost-painful heat burning at his cheeks as he tried not to think about how pathetic he looked.

But quickly the burning had faded, replaced by more immediate discomfort. His knees ached from constantly bearing his weight and stung from the scrapes and bruises accumulating along them. The palms of his hands were equally torn, and he was hard pressed to find any way to move that didn’t make his neck and back ache.

At the very least, the tiles he now crawled across were smooth and flat. Pleasantly cool against his swollen knees.

He was aware of crossing a threshold and entering some new room. The tiling below his hands changed to thick blue carpet, and the lights were dimmed even further. His keeper stopped, and Obi-Wan shuffled to a halt, falling back onto his heels and allowing his back to straighten as much he dared. He grimaced from the ache and pains. He didn’t like to show such obvious signs of discomfort to his captors but it couldn’t be helped.

“Leave us,” a voice from within the room said sharply. Obi-Wan jumped, not liking that her voice was so close and he could not raise his head to look.

To Obi-Wan’s surprise, the guard who had lead him simply dropped the leash without a word. He made a small guttural noise to acknowledge her command, and left. The sound of a door closing behind him followed.

Obi-Wan risked the briefest of glances while he was still somewhat upright. As he had suspected the room was darkly ornate. Furniture for various states of recline filled the room, each laden full of blankets and pillows that were hung and draped by design. In strack contrast to soft bedding, however, were the walls- all along them hung cruel or mystifying instruments of punishment. Some he recognized quickly as whips and rods, others he didn’t have names for- but their shapes and angles brought a heat to the back of his neck.   

“Head down,” the same voice spoke again, still sharp and dispassionate, but lacking the anger and spite Obi-Wan had grown accustomed to hearing in this palace.

Obi-Wan ducked his head quickly, only catching the woman in the briefest of glances. She sat in an austere chair several yards ahead of him and wore the same kind of leather armor he had seen other Zygerrians sport, he thought it seemed out of place in this room full of luxury.

“You need not look- only listen,” she continued when his demeanor was appropriately submissive again.

Obi-Wan was surprised to find her voice stir up memories from the Temple- of Masters like Unduli or even Tahl. Her words clear and authoritative, demanding of respect- but not harsh or truly cruel. This was a slave-trainer who was no doubt a Master at her craft.  

  
After a short pause, likely to see if he would be tempted to look about the room once more, she continued.

“What’s your name, child,” she asked with a voice that betrayed a smile.

For a moment, Obi-Wan’s mouth moved without making a sound. His Master’s undercover persona had needed a name, but they’d not created one for Obi-Wan, since they had not anticipated him needing to speak. The Shadow’s words returned to him. _Don’t lie if you do not need to._

“Obi-Wan,” he finally managed, foregoing an alias, convinced that any attempt to lie would be entirely transparent to his trainer. “ _Mistress,”_ he added quickly, hoping he had chosen the correct title.

“ _Obi-Wan,”_ she repeated his name, her voice sending a shiver across his shoulders he hoped she couldn’t see. “Well, Obi-Wan, I’m sure you will be assigned a new name soon- but I will allow you to use it here.”

Another pause. Obi-Wan wondered if he was meant to respond, and as the silence grew, he became sure she was waiting for him to speak.

“Thank you, mistress,” Obi-Wan mumbled, the words felt safe- if odd.        

“Are you scared, Obi-Wan?” Her voice remained pitiless, at odds with the question she asked.

Obi-Wan hesitated. When the Queen had said _reconditioning_ , Obi-Wan had imagined clinical rooms for torture and brainwashing, the likes of which he had withstood on Phindar. And something he could have endured again.

What he hadn’t imagined, or perhaps hadn’t _wanted_ to imagine, was a room like this, full of cushions and blankets and beds...   

“Yes, mistress,” Obi-Wan managed, unsure if that was the answer she was looking for but feeling meekness was most in character. Ignoring the stray thought that told him that it was also the truth.

“There is no need to be frightened, Obi-Wan,” the trainer responded in her clipped high tone, “The Queen invests in only the highest quality slaves. We would simply use spice if all we needed was for you to be limp and pliable. That's the sort of low quality entertainment Hutts deal in. Our clients come to us for a better quality of slave... which requires a finer touch- a technique I have perfected. Never once have I had to break a slave- instead with my guidance, they have all _asked_ to be broken. As will you, Obi-wan. Do you understand?”        

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure that he did, but he was sure he didn’t want to. He nodded and mumbled out an acknowledgement.

“Good. Now, five paces in front of you there is a mat- you are to kneel on it.”

The command was strange, but Obi-Wan wasn’t inclined to question it. His priority was to investigate the facility, and he couldn’t do that while he was here under such close scrutiny. Surely his best course of action was play their game, feign submission and obedience, perhaps even gain their trust and be allowed more freedom to explore the facility. He had everything to lose and nothing to gain by resisting. He could only be grateful that for now her orders were simply odd- he didn’t want to imagine what would be asked of him if he remained here too long...                                 

With as much poise as he could muster, Obi-Wan moved himself gently forwards. Striving for the grace he had witnessed in the other service slave, who had seemed to effortlessly walk on her knees.

As promised, not five steps ahead was a small mat. Obi-Wan stifled a groan when the soft carpet disappeared, replaced by a hard, rough plastic mat. Along its surface were uneven spikes which tore even further into his already damaged knees. Obi-Wan could tell, the longer he remained like this, the deeper the plastic spikes would dig.

“Comfortable?” the slave trainer asked with remarkable sincerity.

Obi-Wan’s stomach turned, and he had to swallow down the bile in his throat before he could answer.

“Yes, mistress,” Obi-Wan fought to keep the hiss out of his voice, “ _thank you,_ mistress.”

He didn’t have to see her face to know she was smiling.  

Time moved slowly, Obi-Wan counted the seconds with his heart beat. He had employed every trick and method the Jedi had taught him to remain calm and focused- and none of it was _working_.

The pain in his knees only grew, his own weight slowly forcing the spikes deeper into his flesh. The mat which at first had only been irritating had become agonizing. Everything ached, and no matter what Obi-Wan tried, he couldn’t banish the pain. It was a constant, clawing sensation that kept his mind distracted and his body weak.

He wondered what the slave trainer was waiting for- was he meant to beg? To plead with her- to promise his loyalty and his service if he would just be allowed to _move_?

Obi-Wan recoiled at the thought, what was left of his pride still riled by the idea. He had survived worse injuries than a scraped knee. He would endure this silence, not as a slave, but as a Jedi.

His resolve wavered as time passed, slowly, painfully. Obi-Wan could still hear the woman’s breath, could still feel her unreadable presence in the Force. She seemed perfectly content to sit in her chair watching him, observe the slow breaking of his spirit. It wasn’t just the rough plastic of the mat digging into his raw knees- it was the bruise at his cheek, which still stung more with shame and terror than pain, and the buzzing numbness of his legs below the knee. It was his empty stomach and heavy eyes telling him how he hadn’t eaten or slept.

Eventually Obi-Wan lost track of his heartbeats, aware that he couldn’t have been here more than a few hours, but it may as well have been an eternity.

It was with a sickening jolt of relief that he was brought back into the moment. His trainer’s cool voice rousing him from his silent suffering and offering him respite.

“Come to me,” she ordered flatly.

Obi-Wan fought to suppress his eagerness, as though he hadn’t spent the past hour fantasizing about crawling back onto the plush carpet.

It required some gentleness to separate the flesh of his knees from the the rough plastic which had all but adhered to him. His skin left behind small crusts of blood in the lines of the mat, and he could feel where scabs had started to form were now being disrupted by his movement.

But soon enough both his knees had returned to the soft carpet that lined the rest of the floor. His stomach swelled with relief, the sensation threatening to collapse him. It worried him that such a simple combination of discomfort and boredom had affected him so deeply.

In away, he thought, pure pain would have been simpler. Would have fed his defiance, given him something to fight and conquer. But Obi-Wan simply hadn’t been able to summon that same kind of determination against his own tiring body. It was like trying to fight heavy eyelids after a long mission without rest. And in this way, his trainer had managed to chip at something deeper. Obi-Wan knew he could have remained kneeling on the mat for hours more, maybe even days. But as she promised, she hadn’t threatened him with pain- rather she had held comfort just out of reach. And now that she was offering it to him- he couldn’t see a reason to refuse.        

The trainer’s voice tugged at him once again.

“Come, Obi-Wan.”

Whatever grace Obi-Wan had managed before was gone, his muscles were too weak and his mind was too tired to care. He crawled in the direction of her voice, and stopped when he reached her boots, collapsing on the spot. He turned his legs to the side, keeping the open wounds on his legs from touching anything, and felt the closest he’d gotten to contentment in days. He moved to rest his head against the carved wood of the chair, but his trainer's hand guided him instead to the softness of her leg.

A distant part of his mind told him he ought to be horrified, humiliated- that he was a Jedi, not a dog. But these felt like someone else's thoughts, and he paid them no mind.

He felt the odd sensation of the woman’s hand lightly touch across the top of his head, and involuntarily his body raised slightly to follow the contact. The light brush of her fingers against his scalp felt terribly good.

“You’ve done well,” her voice was light, but the words stirred something in Obi-Wan. Hadn’t Qui-gon said much the same thing? _You’ll do well._

It was with rekindled shame that Obi-Wan realized her praise had elicited the same response in him that his Master’s words had. But that brief swell of pride mixed uncomfortably with his guilt and set his stomach churning.

Obi-Wan tried to remain as still as he could, resisting the urge to move with her touch. The trainer’s hand in his hair was so light, but her fingers were deliberate. Every gentle tug guiding his head to move, asking for him to pull away or come closer with her touch. He fought the suggestions as best he could, but her soft strokes were like a balm. The same way the plush carpet under his legs eased his pain, her small affectionate touch healed something else less tangible.

And it made Obi-Wan sick.

It was both a relief and a sadness when her hand withdrew from tousling his hair.

“Look at me.”

For a moment Obi-Wan wasn’t sure that he could, but already her words had such power over him. He unbent his back and adjusted so he could look up to where she sat above him.  

Obi-Wan stared politely at her shoulder, the way he had learned to do when facing the council or other high ranking Masters. He could clearly see the slave-trainer’s face, but it spared him having to fully meet her gaze.

She was smiling, but it didn’t reach her eyes. There, Obi-Wan only saw darkness.

The edges of her mouth twitched downward briefly in a frown.

“Who struck you?” Her words were clipped with displeasure.

Obi-Wan felt his face flush with shame, and went to cover the bruise on his cheek, but stopped and let his hand fall back to his side.

His throat felt tight, even if he knew what to say, he didn't think he could speak it out loud. _Qui-Gon._ Qui-Gon had hit him. His Master, the man who was sworn to protect and care for him. It still sounded absurd- even in his own thoughts. For a moment he imagined standing in front of the Council, answering this very same question...

“Answer quickly when you are spoken to,” the trainer reprimanded and Obi-Wan instinctively straightened at her disapproving tone.

“My Master,” Obi-Wan blurted out, too sick and tired to construct a lie. “My Master, he hit me...”

The words caught in Obi-Wan’s throat, and to his own horror he could feel the edge of a sob building there. _He hit me._

“And what did you do to force your Master’s hand and cause him to hit you?”

Obi-Wan swallowed down the pain in his voice and blinked away what he feared were tears building in his eyes.

“I was... disobedient- questioned my Master’s will. I should have done as I was told. I-” The words tumbled from him before he could really make sense of them, a confession he hadn’t realized he needed to make, “I deserved this...” Obi-Wan finished weakly, his head falling to hide the shame on his face. This was the thought that had been needling in the back of his mind since they had been separated. His Master would _never_ hit him- not unless... not unless he had truly deserved it? It was the only explanation for Qui-Gon’s actions...

“Hmm, well. That will have to change. I will teach you to serve your Masters better.” Her hand lifted his chin so he was looking at her once again, this time there was no escaping her pitiless eyes.  

There was the expectant pause that always followed her words, waiting for Obi-Wan to respond in turn.

The exchange felt familiar, years at the temple made the words feel smooth in his mouth.

“Thank you, mistress.”

* * *

 

Being returned to his cage like cell was an odd relief. The floor was cold and the space was cramped- but it was the closest thing to safety he had in this nightmare.  

Obi-Wan retreated as far from the entrance as he could, pressing his body into the corner, the smooth sides reassuring him. No one could reach him here, there were no hands or eyes to move across his body, and that was a relief hard won.   

He suppressed a shudder.

Mentally he tried to congratulate himself for his performance with the trainer. This was what he and the Shadow had spent days preparing for and Obi-Wan was sure he had played the part well. He sensed no suspicion from the trainer or the guards, his true identity as a Jedi was safe. No doubt Qui-Gon was also taking further steps to deceive the Queen and gain her trust. The gift of one slave would hardly be enough to gain her confidence...  

Obi-wan suppressed the sensation that rose in his stomach at the memory. He had already wasted too many hours repeating that moment in his mind.

But he couldn’t still the worry building in his bones.

Many times he had been warned about the unique dangers of undercover missions, how the lines could blur if one did not properly separate themselves from an assignment. He had already been on several undercover missions, and yet none had ever left him feeling so confused. And while he tried desperately to fight the feeling- he couldn't stop the growing fear that when Qui-Gon had given him away- he meant it...

Like any Jedi, Obi-Wan knew that in the course of duty he might be asked to lay down his life, and that he must freely give it. That had never given Obi-Wan pause. But the danger he now faced wasn’t simple death- it was a life of subjugation and abuse.

And Obi-Wan would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that future scared him more than dying ever could.  

If the mission failed and he could not escape- If he was instead sold to a new Master and whisked half way across the galaxy- how long could he continue to call himself a Jedi first and a slave second?

He shook his head to dispel the thoughts, sinking down further in the cage floor, burying his face against his arms instead of the cold metal of the floor.

He reached out for any small solace in the Force, for guidance from his training, or comfort from his Master.

But none came.  

 _Qui-Gon will rescue me_ , he thought definitely.  

However, those words felt hollow and brought with them unbidden memories.

He was reminded of the desperate nights he had waited for Qui-Gon to rescue him on the Bandomeer mining platform- and that he never did. If it hadn't been for Guerra, Obi-Wan’s short life would have ended there, dead on impact with the water- his body never to be recovered.  

There were memories of Phindar, where Obi-Wan had found himself captured, tortured and near brainwashed. Where it had been his own resilience that saw him alive and sane- and not simply a walking shell. During that time Qui-gon had been nowhere to be found.

And finally flashes of Telos, when they faced execution. The moments in the cage suspended above the crowd and moving towards their deaths- and Obi-Wan’s heartbreaking conviction that his Master could not save him. It was instead Andra and Den to whom Obi-Wan owed his life that day.

So no... he couldn't count on Qui-Gon to rescue him... if he was even looking.

Qui-Gon had left him once before because of his disobedience. On Melida/Daan he had been an unworthy padawan, defied his Master and endangered their mission.

If Qui-Gon could leave him there.... was it really so hard to imagine he could leave him here? If Obi-Wan could even make it out... would Qui-Gon still want him?

Eventually, exhaustion overcame him. It was hard to tell how much time had passed, the facilities lights seemed to always be left on, a harsh blue glow that made sleep hard.

But despite the cold and the discomfort, Obi-Wan found himself on the verge of unconsciousness.

He silenced his fears, releasing them back to the Force. He would regain his strength and he would plan. Tomorrow the mission would continue- with or without Qui-Gon.

But first,  he would have to escape.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody, welcome back!
> 
> Wanna put a warning up front that the violence is starting here. Nothing too extreme, but some blood, some injury, some impromptu ear piercing. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to the above. 
> 
> That being said, we hope you're excited for this new chapter. Things are still only getting worse for Obi-Wan as he tries to complete this mission on his own.
> 
> Have fun reading and if you like it we would love to hear about it! We are both on tumblr at sunsetofdoom.tumblr.com and the-son-of-dathomir.tumblr.com 
> 
> Thank you again- and please enjoy!

Obi-Wan slowed his breath, listening with all his senses. The sound of heavy boots drifted down the corridors, Obi-Wan recognized the stride and weight, it was the same guard who had come for him yesterday.

He hoped his compliance the day before would put the man off guard- he would only get one chance at this.

The boots finally reached the outside of his cage and fist banged on the top making it vibrate around Obi-Wan.  

“ _Leash,”_ the voice outside demanded in a bored tone.

Obi-Wan pushed the handled end of his leash out through a small slat at the bottom of the cage and then drew back as he was expected. A moment later it went taunt, but Obi-Wan already had a fist full of it in his hand. He had pulled himself as far back into the cage as he could.

Obi-Wan did his best to brace himself against the walls, the small enclosure allowed him decent friction where he pressed his hands and numb legs.

The cage door opened and the guard gave a hard tug on the leash, jerking Obi-Wan with the motion. But he managed to keep hold of his end and not lose his grip on the walls.

Outside the guard growled low and guttural. Obi-Wan was surely not the first slave to try this.

“If I have to drag you out of this cage it will be as a corpse-”

But Obi-Wan barely registered the threat, confident he would be starved or shocked before any real damage was done to him. Besides, he didn’t intend on staying long enough to find out if the guard would make good on his words.

Another yank pulled him a few inches forwards, but he levered his weight and returned the pull. Obi-Wan was stronger than he looked and the guard’s surprise, if nothing else, allowed him to gain a few more inches of leash as the guard stumbled forwards.

“ _You insolent piece of scum!”_ The guard seethed outside the cage. “You think I can't hurt you because you're one of the Queen’s precious little _whores_ \- but I can think of a dozen things I’d like to do to you that _wouldn't leave a mark.”_

The guard made a final vicious yank on the lead, putting all his considerable weight behind it. Happy to snap Obi-Wan’s neck if it meant getting him out of the cage.

But Obi-Wan didn't fight the pull this time. It was with Jedi precision that he let his coiled end of the leash go just as the guard whipped back on the cord. Before the leash could go taunt again, Obi-Wan made a dive for the open end of the cage in a fluid movement.

With nothing resisting the pull, the guard lost his balance, stumbling back. Obi-Wan was out of the cage in the same instant, using his hands to torque his body and swing his legs into the guard’s feet. Surprised and unbalanced, the guard reeled from the sudden impact.

But what Obi-Wan had hoped would send the guard toppling, only made him stumble.

Obi-Wan rolled. Trying to position himself behind the guard. There was only so much he could do from the floor, but he could at least make himself himself a moving target.

The guard was still regaining his wits, when Obi-Wan struck the pressure point in the back of his knee with a precision move that brought his much larged opponent down to one leg.

The guard howled in rage, pained from the savage nerve strike, but was already pulling himself up on the remaining good leg.

Obi-Wan went to roll a second time, but he was jerked to a stop when the guard found his hold on the leash again.

The lead had become tangled between them, and Obi-Wan tried to use that to his advantage, giving it his own end a hard yank. But that only seemed to aggravate his opponent.

Obi-Wan desperately kept one fist around the lead. He couldn't escape it, but he could spare his neck the abuse.

For a moment they were locked, each holding onto the cord and refusing to give ground.

The guard spat at Obi-Wan and laughed.

“Someone's going to have a good time breaking you in. But keep this up and you won't stay so pretty for long- you'll end up in the mines with the rest of the used up whores who were more trouble than they were worth.”

The guard made a draw for his stun-rifle and Obi-Wan moved. Rolling forwards and pressing his body up with his hands. A walkover into a front flip would be hard from the ground, but with the Force Obi-Wan could manage it.

In a blur of motion he was upside down and balancing on his hands, allowing the momentum of the roll to carry him forward past the point of balance and into a fall. At the last second he pushed away with his hands, springing into the air and curling his body in a flip. He felt the Force augment his movements, easily closing the gap between them before the guard could move to defend himself.

With instinct and the Force Obi-Wan struck out at the height of his arc. His elbow made a satisfying noise when it hit a bony part of the guard’s face.

The man howled, spraying red flecks from his bloodied mouth and nose. Instinctively he struck out, but missed Obi-Wan entirely.

However, the small victory was short lived. Obi-Wan landed awkwardly, his body moving on memory but his legs still numb and unable to hold him. He tumbled to the ground and already knew that his desperate strike hadn’t been enough. The man was bleeding, a bit dazed. And very angry.

Obi-Wan moved to scramble out of striking distance, keenly aware all of a sudden how vulnerable he was again. The brief moment in the air had made him feel like a Jedi once more- but with his legs out of commission, that sort of agility was not something he could maintain for more than a few moments.

Too soon the guard had recovered. His face a mess with blood running from a broken nose and between cracked teeth. His eyes burned as he advanced towards Obi-Wan with a new threat to his movements.

It was a with sickening drop, Obi-Wan knew he had lost his small advantage.

“I'm going to make you regret that,” the guard breathed heavily, flecks of blood splattering across the floor and Obi-Wan. Taking no more chances, the guard activated the controls on his belt before Obi-Wan had time to move.

The collar at his neck lit up and his whole body arched in pain. Obi-Wan fought it at first, biting down the screams. A mistake, he realized, that only encouraged the guard to turn the knob further, causing the collar to pour out out more electricity.

Obi-Wan let himself scream - knowing the guard wouldn’t be satisfied until he did- it wasn't hard to give into the urge. Every muscle spasmed and contracted, causing his body to move in jittery convulsions on the floor, the metal cuffs on his legs making loud noises against the tile floor.

The edges of his vision were dark, but Obi-Wan could see the guard looming above him. He felt the dull sensation of the man kicking at him, forcing his numb body onto his back.

“Maybe your last owner found your acrobatic stunts amusing- I do not,” the man growled, placing a heavy boot square on Obi-Wan’s chest, pinning him further to the floor. “ _I hate you insufferable pleasure slaves!_ I’m glad I did my time in the mines- a better life than just laying with your legs open.”

Obi-Wan managed a desperate gasp, the paralysis of the collar lessening enough that he could feel his chest expanding again- only to be met by the pressure of the man’s boot.

“A day in the labour center would get rid of that dumb dewy-eyed look on your face- probably lose a few of those precious _jewels_ too,” the man spat the word with disgust, grinding his heel harder and causing Obi-Wan to cough and gasp for air. Under the boot, he felt the chain of the decorative pendant snap.

Obi-Wan knew he was on the edge of blacking out. The world was dim and foggy, and he could barely hear the guard talking anymore. But if he passed out here... who knew where he would awake?

In the haze of his oxygen deprived mind, Obi-Wan latched onto the guard’s last words.   _The labour center. Miners._ That was his only lead to the Togruta colony- if they were being kept here at all- it would mostly likely be there.

He hadn’t been able to escape- but perhaps he could still complete his mission.    

“ _Then do it,”_ Obi-Wan managed to hiss between ragged breaths, pushing the suggestion in the Force. With the last of his energy he raised his hand and passed it in the air between them. “ _Send me to the labourers.”_

The guard’s face was a sneer, about to laugh at Obi-Wan’s ridiculous suggestion. But it hadn’t been hard to play on the man’s anger and hate, to subtly suggest he do what he really wanted to.

“You’ll be dead in a day,” the guard chuckled darkly, the boot easing off Obi-Wan’s chest. “But The Queen has enough playthings- one less won’t be missed.”

 

* * *

 

The labour center, Obi-Wan found out, was housed several levels below where the service slaves were trained.

As they went deeper, the pristine white hallways and clinical holding cells were quickly replaced by older and dirtier cell-blocks and cages.

It was noisier down here as well. The grumble and whine of outdated machinery echoed through the floors, and everywhere they went guards and slaves shouted and cursed one another. They were even forced to sidestep several physical altercations, which Obi-Wan was thankful he didn’t have to witness the ends of. While many of the slaves down here were large and muscular, the guards were clearly better equipped with weapons and armor.         

Obi-Wan took in as much as he could, eyes scanning each cell for signs of the Togruta colonists. He found many beaten and pitiful creatures staring back at him, but none were those whom he sought.

By the time they had reached the hub of the center, Obi-Wan finally understood the source of the loud machinery.

The labour center was a working refinery, most likely mining for some sort of metal ore if he had to judge by the machines they passed. Some of the slaves here were likely permanent residents, used to produce whatever resource Zygerria _officially_ dealt in. For others this was merely their first stop, a controlled environment to break labours in and train them for the work they would be shipped out to perform elsewhere.

Finally, Obi-Wan and his keeper reached the entrance to some sort of work zone, two guards stood at the entrance, their expressions confused when they saw him. Obi-Wan grimaced, imagining what he must look like to them. The bruise on his cheek now just one mark amongst several others, the silks that had looked so lovely now torn and sweat stained, covering even less than they had before, and of course his crippled legs dragging uselessly behind him, the rest of his body finally adjusting to his new life of crawling and shuffling.

“Think you took a wrong turn,” one of the new guards joked, “the entrance to the whorehouse is back the way you came.”

“I’ve brought it to the right place,” Obi-Wan’s keeper said. He paused and gestured towards his own swollen face. “This one's stronger than it looks-it will be more useful working down here than on its back all day.”

The two guards looked incredulous for a moment longer, before one shrugged.

“There was an accident in the heat-refinery again today, we do have an empty cage...”

“But its legs,” the other cut in, “can it work with those cuffs on? I don’t have the tools to remove them...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Obi-Wan’s keeper gave the leash a harsh pull and Obi-wan couldn’t bite back the pathetic yelp it elicited from him. “This one’s used to being on its knees- practically born for it.”

The guards shared a dark laugh before Obi-Wan’s keeper surrendered his leash to the other Zygerrians.

“Don’t expect to see this one again,” the guard who now held Obi-Wan’s leash warned. “There are a lot of _accidents_ down here in the refinery.”

“That's what I’m counting on,” Obi-Wan’s former keeper chuckled and walked away.

* * *

 

Everything hurt- but he was alive.

The hours he had spent working in the refinery were hell- his numbed legs made every job almost impossible for him, and none of the guards had the tools or the clearance to take them off. Eventually they’d shoved him towards a pile of unrefined ore, and set him filing the sides of it down until he could see the shiny-black metal they were looking for. And, of course, crawling from one station to another to do it.

It was a familiar kind of hell at least. Temple training had demanded the same kind of intense stamina and resilience. Obi-Wan was used to long hours of work without stopping, doing drills and sequences under Qui-gon’s critical gaze without any breaks or relief.

Afterwards he had often fallen onto his dormitory floor feeling much like this.

His knees hurt more now, and somewhere in his mind he worried about the nerve damage the cuffs must be doing by now- it was going on several days and they had yet to be removed once...

But Obi-Wan dismissed it. The quickest way to get the cuffs off was to complete his mission.

He took his bucketful of rocks, heaved it up onto the tiny wheeled cart, and grabbed the handle. The next station was far away, and luckily he’d managed to pilfer this from an abandoned corner. One wheel was broken and didn’t turn, but it was better than trying to carry the bucket while crawling.

Shuffling along, he dragged the little cart behind him, the handle large enough that he could slip his arm through it and drag it without impeding his own movement. In principle, anyway. In practice, the cart slipped and skidded all over the metal walkway, the broken wheel kicking it off-track. It was starting to leave bruises up and down his arm.

The next station was smaller, quieter. There seemed to be only a few workers instead of the mobs at the other posts. Obi-Wan slipped his arm out of the handle, taking the bucket off of the cart to set it on the ground.

Already somewhat familiar with his job, he found the pile of potential ore and sat himself down, sorting through. Most of them seemed to have potential metals in them. Looking up and around, he saw a chance to speak to the others under the pretense of finding a pick to carve the ore from the rock.

He pulled his tiny cart forward, and it made a terrible creaking noise as it moved, rolled while agitating it's broken, squeaking wheel, and then crashed into the pile of rock. Which also fell loudly.

Along the wall of rock, the figure twitched, and then looked around, missing him at first. They looked around, and then back again, finally noticing him on the ground. They made a surprised little noise, and Obi-Wan heard the chains move as the other slave came closer, into the little ring of light around the machinery.

She was a Rodian, the green of her skin washed out and sickly, but her eyes still glowed with sparkling light.

“Who sent _you_ down here?” She asked, incredulous. “Those silks... You’re meant to be upstairs, aren’t you?”

The sound of someone speaking to him, out loud, as though he were a real person, startled Obi-Wan into silence for a moment. For a few seconds he almost forgot that he could speak words that weren’t _Yes Mistress_ or _No, Master._ Her big glowing eyes stared down at him and saw a child instead of a slave.

He coughed the dust out of his throat, his moment of sentimentality forgotten as he tried to speak and found his voice raw and dry. “A guard,” he rasped, “I made him angry and he sent me down here instead.”

The Rodian started to come closer, the creaking of her chains disturbingly loud, and Obi-Wan looked around for guards, sure that they would get in trouble- he’d taken a lash to his shoulder for trying to talk to someone at another station.

“Don’t worry.” She said. “They don’t come down here much. This station’s a wreck.”

She knelt down in front of him, and he saw that one of her legs set at a bad angle, evidence of hard mining work with no medical treatment. “I’m Gailee. What’s your name?”

“Obi-Wan,” he answered.

She smiled thinly. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m still bound. That’s Asher, over there. We run this station, barely. Nobody much minds what we do.”

Obi-wan looked to where she gestured, through a gap in the machinery to see a pale Twi’lek man. He waved, a pick in one hand and no other, the stump of his right arm a deeper blue that looked like scarring. Obi-Wan smiled at him, feeling it twist his dirty face as though he hadn’t smiled in years.

Asher smiled back with a mouth half-empty of teeth, clearly pleased by a friendly gesture, but started to cough, wetly. It sounded agonizing. The smile slipped off of Obi-Wan’s face. The only decent beings he’d met in days, chained to walls on opposite sides of a machine, ill and crippled. He felt a such a rush of hatred for the guards, for the Queen and the whole system, that he had to clench his eyes shut to shove it away.

Gailee peered around as far as she could lean, trying to get a glimpse of Asher through the machinery. “Ash? Are you okay?” She said softly.

“Ye-s.” Rasped Asher. His voice was deep and quiet, even with the dry sound of his raw throat. “I’m not dead yet, Lee.”

She sighed, her brow furrowed. “Thank Ryl’a for that much.”

Asher made a low, urgent noise, and tapped his pick against the metal with three quick raps.

“Patrol,” Gailee whispered, “look busy.”

Obi-Wan heard the echoing noises of a guard’s boots on the metal walkway above them, trying not to let the fear in his gut overtake him. He picked up one of the rocks from the pile, studying it for the shiny black ore in the center, and focused all of his attention on the sound of the boots coming closer, and closer, and then fading into the distance.

He hated being so _scared_ all the time. Tensing and relaxing his shoulders, he breathed in and out in a steady pattern, the way he’d been taught since childhood.

Behind him, there was a loud _clang_ \- something dropped from the walkway. He jumped.

Gailee looked past him, her eyes fixed on whatever had dropped. “Obi-Wan,” she said, her voice hoarse, “can you get that? I can’t move from here, and Asher can’t leave his pump or it sticks.”

He nodded. The crawling wasn’t as bad now, almost routine, but his knees hurt from the rocks, dust, and grit littered along the floor of the mine, and he knew the numb skin from his knees down was torn and bleeding, even though he couldn’t feel most of it.

About ten feet away was a metal canteen. Obi-Wan considered it for a moment, trying to think of how to get it back. Picking it up, he realized that there was a crack down one corner, on the bottom- and precious water was leaking out.

On reflex, he coughed, thinking about water for the first time in over a day. He knew he was dehydrated. But the other two- how much worse must it be for Gailee and Asher, who _lived_ here?

He’d just have to get it back with as much water still in it as he could.

After a moment’s thought, he decided the best way to bring it back would be holding it upside-down, so that nothing would leak, and shuffling himself forward on his knees. It looked undignified, but from Gailee’s desperate expression, his new friends wouldn’t care in the least as long as he got their water ration to them. He grimaced as he thought about how ripped up, bloody, and dirty the tops of his feet were.

He handed the canteen to Gailee when they could reach, leaning over as far as he could to hand it over and then using his hands to drag himself closer. His knees hurt to the point of almost being numb themselves, and he had a nagging anxiety that the mess of torn flesh and dirt from his knees to his toes would end up with some kind of infection.

“How long has it been?” Gailee asked him when he was a few feet closer. She shook the canteen in his direction.

He shook his head. “Just a day or two.” He coughed, and saw Gailee’s head tilt to the side, her expression skeptical. “I’m alright.”

“I drank this morning,” she told him, “they drop double rations on this end because my species needs more water to live.”

“Which is why _you_ should drink first.” He countered.

Her large eyes, deep and dark as space with its smattering of stars, blinked at him. “How old are you?” She asked. Her voice was soft.

“Fifteen,” Obi-Wan answered.

Her space-patterned eyes closed. “That’s how old I was when I got sold down here.” Gailee told him. “Do you think I don’t remember what that was like? How terrified I was, to be in such a miserable place all alone? I’ll give you any comfort I can.”

She held out the canteen.

Her expression was stern, and Obi-Wan surrendered, taking the bottle. It was weak of him. He should let them have the water. But now that it was in front of him, he was humiliatingly aware of the dryness in his throat, the tightness of his skin. All his body wanted was water.

And her talk of _comfort_ did something to the pit of his stomach.

“Use your hand,” Gailee said. “cover the crack in it while you take the cap off. All the containers are like that.”

He did, wincing a little at the thought of his coal-dust coated hands touching the water, which probably wasn’t very clean to begin with. But it was clearly enough to kept these people alive.

“How did you end up down here?” He asked as he tried to pry the cap open one-handed. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” he added very quickly. All he wanted was something to distract him from the indignity of trying to open the damn canteen with one hand busy and the other incredibly sore from two days of crawling nonstop.

Gailee made a soft sound like a laugh. “It’s alright. I was born on Zygerria. My mother was a house-slave, and so was I. We cleaned, mostly. Not exactly service-trained. But I had a bad fall when I was about your age, and broke my leg. My Master was furious. So when it didn’t heal right, he sent me to auction. I’ve been down here ever since.”

Obi-Wan sipped the water slowly, listening. Gailee was looking into the distance, at the guards’ catwalk.

“They say if you can get by on good behavior, the guards will give you paid work as a ratter- a second overseer and a paid snitch. It’s dirty work, and everyone hates them. But if you can do it for long enough you can pay your bond-price and get _out_.”

Obi-Wan took one more swallow of water, and passed it back. He could easily have taken the whole thing for himself; his throat was already dry again. But the other two clearly needed it more.

He sat back, letting Gailee drink as much as she needed. He’d discovered that it was hard to sit on his heels when he couldn’t use his muscles to keep them in place. Everything about his legs felt wrong- it was like knowing he was gnawing a hole in his cheek, but unable to feel it, when it had been numbed for dental work. When the cuffs came off... Force knew how badly it would hurt.

Gailee handed the canteen back. “Here. Could you take this over to Ash? I got put on the wall-” she rattled her chains, irritated, “because they caught me going over there to share the extra water ration.”

The canteen was lighter now, but Obi-Wan could tell it was still just over half-full. Keeping it upside-down, he carefully shuffled out and around the machinery to reach Asher on the other side. Piled all around the tall machinery was a ring of detritus- cloth, small bones, rodent droppings, nuts and bolts. Obi-Wan tried to keep his ruined knees out of the piles of stuff, but there wasn’t much chance with barely any space to nudge through between this machine and the next segment.

Rounding the corner, he saw Asher, single arm on the pump, giving it a turn every few seconds.

“Here,” he said, holding out the canteen. He breathed, trying to muster up the impulse to say more. His knees hurt. Now that some of his thirst had abated, he could feel that he hadn’t eaten anything in days either. It was becoming difficult to hold onto his Jedi calm with his nerves so frayed.

Asher took it, drinking gratefully. Obi-Wan noticed, from this side of the machine, that there was a large orange tag stapled into the top of his ear, and he shuddered. They were marked like animals.

Lowering the canteen, Asher caught his gaze and winked. It made Obi-Wan smile.

“Do you know anything about a big group of Togruta people? They would have been moved down here... within the last few weeks?”

Asher furrowed his brow, tilting his head. “Now, how would an upper-level, eye-candy looking little thing like yourself know about _them_?” His accent was a thick Ryl drawl.

Obi-Wan looked up at him, wondering how much he could be trusted. His mission was so, so secret; if he were compromised, not only would the Togrutans disappear into the trafficking system, but the extraction team would be unable to reach the planet. Obi-Wan would be stuck here.

“I know someone who got sent down here with them,” he said, making it up on the spot.

Asher looked down at him skeptically. “Really.” He narrowed his eyes, handed the canteen back to Obi-Wan- it still had part of the water ration inside- and returned his attention to the pump. It made an unholy squeaking noise for a few moments, and then went back to its quiet grinding. “Bunch’a nice Mid-Rim people like that, you’d almost expect someone to come looking for ‘em.”

“Maybe.” Obi-Wan said. He felt Asher out in the Force, and found only honest concern. “Maybe someone already is.”

Asher glanced over at him, and Obi-Wan knew that Asher had understood.

The burly Twi’lek straightened himself, turning to look Obi-Wan in the eyes. “I know where they’re going. Someone up top has a contract to take them and some others to Cato Nemoidia for some kind of underground work.” He turned his head away and started to cough again.

The coughing fit stretched on and on, and Obi-wan shuffled closer, holding the canteen out- there was still a good amount of water inside. Asher waved him off, shaking his head. “Won’t help,” he rasped, “you can have it.”

“Please take it.” He said.

Asher narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “It won’t do any good. It can’t save me. The black-lung’s gonna keep killing me until I get shipped out.”

Obi-Wan sat back, startled. Asher sighed.

“See this?” He asked. He touched the orange tag stuck through the top of his ear. “This marks me to go with all those nice Mid-Rim people to Cato Nemoidia for some droid-building nonsense. They’ll probably survive. Me? I’m worn-out. If the overseers don’t kill me on the ride over, the black lung probably will. And I won’t even have Lee with me....” He trailed off, looking at the machinery as though he was trying to stare through it, to see Gailee on the other wall.

Obi-Wan’s mind raced. Asher’s tag marked the way to the Togruta shipment, to the people he was meant to rescue. If he got visual confirmation, he could contact the Council members waiting just out of orbit.

He could end this mission on his own.

He could call in a rescue.

Opening his mouth to speak, Obi-Wan found his throat obstructed by emotion- whether from Asher’s admissions, or his and Gailee’s kindness in this terrible place, or just the possibility of getting out, he couldn’t say. Trying to swallow it down, his eyes swimming, he stared up at the tag in Asher’s ear. That was his way out. The only way to freedom, to rescue. It was his way back to the Jedi.

The metal lock that secured the tag through skin was crusted in dried blood, a small stream of red-brown trailing in a cracked and broken line down Asher’s neck. Even in the dim light it was a nauseating contrast to his pale blue skin.

Obi-Wan summoned the tattered remains of his courage, and breathed. “Let me go,” he said, low and urgent. “Let me go instead.”

Asher’s face didn’t change, but he looked at Obi-wan in a piercing manner, examining him- Obi-wan became very aware that he was dressed in ripped silks and damaged jewelry, not the image of a pristine Jedi Padawan. He didn’t look like much.

“I’ll tell you what,” Asher said slowly. “You won’t get far with those cuffs on. I’ll trade my tag for your cuffs.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. “How? The guards couldn’t get them off...”

Asher leaned closer, peering down at the metal around Obi-Wan’s legs. “I grew up a farmhand. Those locks is just like the ones I used to pick apart on the livestock. You hit those at the right joint, they pops right open.”

Rooting through the ring of detritus at the base of the machine, Asher grabbed onto the handle of what looked almost like a small ice-pick, no bigger than his hand. “Yes or no, child.” He said, not looking at Obi-Wan.

“Yes.” Obi-Wan said, horrifying himself. It would have to be done. He swallowed hard, trying not to look at the dried blood tracking down from Asher’s ear.

Asher nodded. “C’mere. We’ll get those things off first ‘n give you a hot minute to get yer legs under you.”

Obi-Wan crawled closer, deeply aware of the open scrapes on his knees and shins, and not eager to feel them for the first time in days. He sat, pulling his legs up where Asher could reach the cuffs.

“Right leg first,” he said, letting go of the pump and grasping the pick again. Obi-Wan held his right leg steady as Asher found the right place to aim the pick.

“On three.” Asher told him. Obi-Wan nodded.

“One-”

There was a loud _crack!_ , and Obi-Wan nearly shouted. The cuff sparked as it died, and he did yelp.

It dropped off his leg, broken nearly in two, and Obi-Wan averted his eyes. Sensation came back in a haze of painful tingling.

“Next ‘un,” Asher said almost cheerfully. “Get it over with before it hurts. Hold th’other steady.”

Obi-Wan kept his eyes clenched shut, holding his left knee. Asher didn’t bother to count this time; the _crack!_ was loud, and this one shocked him worse, but he didn’t cry out again.

He gritted his teeth. The tingling of his right leg was fading to aching pain, sharp at his shins and knees. He didn’t even want to look at his legs, covered in dirt and grime and blood. They would need disinfecting when he got back to the Temple.

Asher was already applying a similar technique to the tag in his ear. “Hurry up,” he said, “the shipment’s gettin’ loaded soon. Better be walkin’ by then.”

Obi-Wan breathed in, and out. In and out. Counting off, the way he’d learned in the creche. _One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four._ _Peace. Quiet. Calm._ He tried to flex his toes, his feet. They felt rubbery and unreal, but they moved. He rubbed his fingers into the arches of his feet, trying to get feeling back as quickly as possible.

His knees _hurt_ , but his shins- the scraped, dirtied mass of bloody skin- felt worryingly numb. When he could curl his toes in and back at a pace approaching normalcy, he grabbed a bit of pipe and tried to hoist himself up. Using the Force to augment his strength, he held up his upper body and tried to get his shaking legs aligned underneath him.

He had to practically cling to the pipe not to immediately fall back down. His palms leaving bloody marks as he grasped along the surface.

He held on, breathing hard. Feeling was returning, and with feeling- pain. At the sight of his mangled shins he thought had some clue as to how badly they would hurt- but he had severely underestimated.

Not only was the skin, or what was left of it, on fire but the bones and the tendons felt dangerously unstable and weak.

He tried gingerly to put some weight on his legs, and immediately regretted it. Pain spiked through bones and nerves all the way to his hips. He let out a hiss of air and almost collapsed.

Something might have been fractured.

With a few more deep breaths Obi-Wan tried again. Pulling himself back to standing with the pipe, fortifying his legs with the Force.

He breathed in the pain, he felt it in every inch of his body. He held onto it, holding his breath, letting the sensation fill him. And then with all his Jedi calm, he exhaled, breathing the pain out of his body.

It helped a little.

But breathing exercises weren’t going to heal his wounds, he thought ruefully.  

After a moment more of standing, Obi-Wan let go of the pipe. His full weight on his legs felt dangerously unstable, and the mangled skin felt awful. He could feel tears pricking in the corners of his eyes from the sheer amount of burning and stinging.

But he pushed it all down. If he couldn't breathe out the pain- he would suppress it. It wasn't what Jedi were meant to do, but he didn’t have the time to care. He should have been able to transcend this physical discomfort- but he was weak. All he could do was burry it, pull it deep within himself and lock it away. He would deal with it later. Right now- he had to walk.

With a deep reserve of willpower he thought he had lost, Obi-Wan snuffed the feelings of pain. His wounds still hurt- but he could manage it, so long as his mental barriers stayed in place and the pain was contained in his mind.

He took a hesitant step and almost stumbled. His arms swinging wide for balance. He called on the Force for support, letting it cushion the air around him. He rebalanced and stepped again. One more and he let out a shaky exhale- _he could walk._

But something inside him curdled the feeling of relief.

Yes he could walk- but it felt so _wrong._

A stray thought said- _maybe that guard was right. Maybe I was meant to be on my knees._

But Asher’s voice pulled him from those uncomfortable thoughts.

“Come on, you don’t ‘ave much time.” He gestured with the orange tag in hand, and Obi-Wan stumbled to him again, landing back on his knees with a mixture of pain and relief. The bottoms of his feet becoming as dirty and cut up as the tops.    

Obi-Wan carefully took the bright orange tag in his hands. The mechanism that allowed it to lock had warped a little from Asher’s picking, but it was still functional. With a growing unease, Obi-Wan considered the thick post,it was too blunt to simply shove through his own ear.

Bending forwards on his knees- his legs screaming in protest- Obi-Wan began to sort through the garbage and litter that blanketed the work zone ground. Everything was stained so black from the ore dust it was almost impossible to determine what was what. But it didn't take long for Obi-Wan's fingers to curl around something small, metal and _sharp_.

A long forgotten nail from some cart or similar, rusted and blackened with grime. Obi-Wan swallowed down growing disgust. When had his last medical been? His boosters were up to date- right?

Obi-Wan made a quick futile attempt to clean the nail on his own dirty clothes, scraping off the worst of the crusted on grime.

Near by a buzzer sounded.

“That's the gate opening for a vehicle- likely the one come to pick you up, _hurry,”_ Gailee hissed, loudly enough to be heard around the machinery.

Obi-Wan knew he could delay no longer. This was his only way home. He pulled off the useless decorative cuff that had somehow held onto his ear this long, and lined up the nail where he had seen the tag on Asher.

He pressed his newly freed legs hard on the ground, causing all the accumulated bruises and wounds to sing. With that pain loud and hot to distract him, Obi-Wan gave a quick silent count down and _shoved._

The nail didn't go through easily, grinding it's way through the cartilage of his upper ear,

but Obi-Wan kept pressing. Relief flooding him when he felt it break the skin on the opposite side.

“Can you help me get it in,” Obi-Wan said tightly, passing the tag back to Asher. The farmhand and leaned in close, aligning the tags post opposite the nail.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath and said, “ _now.”_

In a fluid movement, Obi-Wan pulled the nail free and Asher leaned his weight in to insert the tag post into the freshly created hole. Obi-Wan bit back a pained yelp, the blunt tag forcing its way through the open wound hurt even more than the initial piercing.

Gasping, Obi-Wan closed his eyes, trying to focus on any of the other duller pains.

Asher helped him click the locking mechanism, securing the tag to his ear. Each of their hands came away bloody and Obi-Wan could feel a warm trickle running it's way down his neck.

“Thanks,” Obi-Wan mumbled. His whole head felt a little numb from the pain and the shock.

“Good luck,” Gailee whispered from the other side of the machine.

Obi-Wan looked up to see a large outdated vehicle trundling on into their works zone.

The front where the driver and her companion sat was open, but behind them was a massive container, the sides dark and solid with no windows. Obi-Wan could hear the small pitiful noises from within when the vehicle came to a bumpy stop nearby.

“There!” The driver pointed at Obi-Wan, “That one's marked.”

Her companion consulted a datapad.

“The last one from this section,” he confirmed, “and that puts us at capacity.” He absently tapped the wall of the container behind him.

“Alright, well hurry up and get it so we can clock out. I'm sick of being an air taxi for _slaves._ ”

The man made a hissing noise that may have been a laugh and jumped out of his seat and advanced on Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan forced himself to stand, but his legs felt watery and distant.

The man took a fist full of Obi-Wan’s hair, wrenching his head to the side and inspecting the tag on his ear.

For a heartbeat Obi-Wan worried the man would discover his deception. But he simply scanned the tag with his datapad and grunted. Everything was in order.

Without letting go of his hair, the man pulled Obi-Wan to the back end of the vehicle. Obi-Wan stumbled, almost falling from the awkward tilt to his weakened legs. The driver activated the door and it opened.

Unceremoniously, Obi-Wan was dropped inside. Immediately he was surrounded on all sides by warm, dirty bodies. There was some jostling until Obi-Wan was knocked to the ground with a stray elbow, unbalanced and unable to catch himself.

The door closed and took all the light with it.

Obi-Wan crawled, worming his way between legs and tails until his hands blindly found a wall. He pressed himself against it. Taking some small comfort in the repetitive vibration of the engine and the treads against his body. He closed his eyes, though it didn't make a difference in the dark.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello. Deepest apologies for this being a tad late! 
> 
> But welcome back, things are maybe beginning to look up for young Obi-Wan? (but don't let that fool you. No one is out of the angst woods yet)
> 
> Please enjoy!!! We both love feed back ♥

The trip from the work zone to the docking bay was a blur.

Obi-Wan was pushed and pulled along with the crowd of slaves, most much taller and larger than him, getting knocked and bumped as he tried to stand and grabbed onto someone who didn’t appreciate it. Though he kept aware of his surroundings, there was little to be seen besides the backs of the other creatures ahead of him.

At some point his little group from the back of the treaded vehicle was let out and herded into an even larger crowd.

Many of the slaves were in binders, and guards patrolled through the crowd keeping order. When Obi-Wan glanced up he could see towers where more guards, these with blasters instead of electrojabbers, watching them.

Obi-Wan could just make out a massive cargo ship docked near by. Slaves were being corralled into loose lines and shepherded up several different boarding ramps.

Obi-Wan sank into the force Force as best he could, trying to see with more than his eyes. Allowing himself to wander in the crowd for a moment, hoping the Force would lead him.

It was so hard with all the noise and the bodies. Every mind here was screaming and terrified. It felt impossible to identify just the creatures he sought.

And then Obi-Wan saw it. With a jolt he craned his body, trying to catch the sight again.

It was the unmistakable stripped pattern of Togrutan montrals, somewhere in the crowd ahead.

Obi-Wan pushed after them. His legs still wobbled, and he stumbled often, falling into other creatures and only keeping his balanced with Force-enhanced luck as he hastily pushed his way through.

Breaking through a final wall of people, Obi-Wan stepped into a new area and his breath caught. Suddenly, he was surrounded by dozens of Togrutas, all slowly being lined up and pushed towards a boarding ramp in the semblance of an orderly queue.

Obi-Wan’s heart leapt and for the first time in days as he felt his own pain fade to the background. He could save all these people, he could be a Jedi. It would all be worth it.

“Excuse me.” Obi-Wan stumbled forward, his relief getting the better of him. He reached desperately for the hand of the nearest Togruta. She was tall and muscular, nearly twice his height with severe facial markings.

Obi-Wan had only known one other Togruta before this, revered Jedi Master Shaak Ti. And if she was a good indication of her species’ temperament, then Obi-Wan had no doubt this woman was as fierce as she looked.

She caught him with a snarl and pulled her hand back with revulsion.

“Sorry- I'm sorry,” Obi-Wan apologized, quickly ducking his head and shrinking back to show he was not a threat, “I am a friend, I swear it. I've been sent by the Republic to help save your colony.” Obi-Wan looked back up at her, his eyes wide and eager. “Please, let me help. We need only visual confirmation that your colony and its leader are here.”

The Togrutan woman only narrowed her eyes at him. She backed away with a half-step, looking wary, and Obi-Wan realized that the colony members had been here for weeks before the Republic was able to act.

If he was so worn-down after only a few days here- how petrified must they be?

“We have no friends here,” she murmured. Her voice was low, but it trembled. “And the Republic doesn’t care.”

Obi-Wan felt his face flush, guilt flaring in his gut. If he had just gotten here sooner...

“You are being looked for,” he said as loud as he dared, “the Jedi are here .” The flagrant tossing about of extraordinarily classified information made his heart rate kick up- but between her hopeless stare and his own dazed horror- he couldn’t walk away.

The woman stared at him, blankly.

“How do you know,” she said, suspicious.

But Obi-Wan didn’t dare share anything else. He just nodded his head frantically at her, hoping she would believe. He walked a fine line, he knew, between betraying his mission- and betraying the heart of himself as a Jedi. His desire to help people.

The woman backed away the few steps she could in the crowd, looking around. Anxious- if she called a guard it was all over- he grabbed her arm.

She shrieked in sudden panic, but then bit the sound back with an anxious glance at the guards. “ Let go, if you value that hand,” she hissed and bared her pointed teeth. But Obi-Wan hung on.

“Please, listen. I must know where they took your governor, Octoga Ree,” he pleaded. Blinking his eyes, he tried to muster up tears, or at least wetness. Pity, combined with his sweet looks, had worked for him before in dire situations.

The woman’s hand trembled in his grasp, and he realized he was using her to stay upright. He loosened his grip, trying to get his balance back, and swayed but did not stumble.

“On board,” she admitted. “They took the Governor on board the ship first.”

Obi-Wan breathed, swaying on his feet. Finally . “Thank you,” he told her. “Thank you, thank you.”

Letting go of her warm hand, he pushed the pain of his half-numb legs from his mind, and tried to make his way towards the loading dock. Dazed, he put his hand to his head, and was surprised at the wetness; his ear was bleeding again. He shook it off.

Obi-Wan’s mind raced. He needed visual confirmation on the Togrutan leader for the Republic to send in armed forces. He would have to board the ship with the other slaves.

He shivered. Getting on wouldn't be very hard, but once he did- he wasn't how he would be able to get back off. If the ship took off while he was still inside, they could be in hyperspace in minutes, completely out of reach. Rocketing away into the darkest parts parts of the Outer Rim, or further into wild space where the Republic had no reach...

He must succeed then. His fate would be tied to these colonist, if they would were not rescued- neither would he be.

Using his small size to his advantage Obi-Wan crouched on his shaking legs and snuck below the long lekku of the Togrutas. Occasionally crawling when he felt his legs growing too weak. The ground was dusty and sandy, the many feet of the crowd kicking up enough dust to make him sneeze a few times.

He was the only creature eager to board the ship, and therefore met no opposition as he cut through the line to the boarding ramp.

He queued for a moment, watching the togrutas ahead of him being fitted with new binders and shock collars. No doubt already interfaced with the ship's radio channels and the crews remotes.

Eventually Obi-Wan was pushed forwards.

“Is this... bad joke?” The Zygerrian crewman in charge of fitting the new binders said to the other. “What do we do with this ?” He gestured at Obi-Wan.

The other, a Muun who held a datapad, shrugged.

“According to my lists there aren't any humans in this order. But...” He reached over to scan Obi-Wan's tag, making him wince; it still hurt. It checks out. It's part of this shipment...” he shrugged again, “Humans are adaptable. It will be fine in the Togruta hold. Probably better off here than with the Wookies.”

The large Zygerrian glared down at Obi-Wan, and grumbled. Obi-Wan looked down, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible with this new problem staring him in the face.

“I don't have small enough binders for it,” The Muun sorted through his selection but came up empty. “We should send it down to the Ugnaught check in, they'll have something.”

Obi-Wan pulled the Force to him, preparing a mind trick if he should need it. It was always tricky with more than one target. But he quickly realized he wouldn't need to.

The Zygerrian made a sound of frustration. “Ugnaught holds are already over capacity. Just let it through and put in requisition order for smaller binders and we’ll deal with it later. Besides, what’s it going to do?” The Zygerrian gave a braying laugh, poking Obi-Wan’s thin shoulder to make him stumble back. “Thing can barely stand- look at it.”

The other crewman sighed in displeasure, but didn't protest. He simply shoved Obi-Wan with rough hands up the ramp into the ship's hold, and went back to his job.

Once inside, Obi-Wan again found himself pressed between moving bodies, but the hold had yet to become too crowded. Most of the Togruta still waited outside to be checked in.

Obi-Wan weaved among the trickle of beings through the badly lit hallways, clustered with nervous people. As he emerged into a larger space, a red and rusty cargo hold, he silently prayed his legs would stay under him long enough to complete this mission.

The Togruta were clustered around the outer walls of the cargo bay. The air was cold and dry, but there were some pipes running along the walls that gave off heat. Most of the sentients were clustered around them.

Obi-Wan gnawed on his lip. He had confirmation that there was a large group of Togruta here. But not that they were the same colonists kidnapped off their transport ship.

Obi-Wan stumbled towards the largest grouping. A few Togruta giving him surprised and incredulous glances along the way.

“Octoga,” Obi-Wan rasped when he got in earshot of the group, his voice cracking. “Please I just need to see him”

The togrutas who stood in his way didn't even look at him.

“Please” Obi-Wan begged, the crack in his voice growing. He didn't have time for this. He had to get back off this ship before it took off, contact the council before the colonists left atmosphere. “I'm here to answer Octoga Ree’s distress signal.”

For the first time Obi-Wan could sense movement from the inside of the group, low muttering he couldn’t understand.

Someone from the inner circle must have signaled the Togrutas blocking Obi-Wan’s way to stand down. Still without paying him much heed, they parted and he was able to slip inside the small group.

There was hardly any room to move, and Obi-Wan found himself face to face with several elderly Togrutas.

He let out an audible breath of relief. The togruta in the middle, who was giving him the most penetrative stare, was Octoga Ree.

Quickly, Obi-Wan ran through his mental checklist. His visual report would be held up to great scrutiny if the Republic took action against Zygerria merely based on his word.

He had to be sure; there could be no doubt. Obi-Wan cast his gaze along the blue markings on the man’s lekku, counting the stripes, making sure they matched what he had seen in the holos. Then moving to quickly scan the man’s face, finding the unique scars and unusually asymmetric facial markings. Obi-Wan was positive he had made a correct identification- this was Octoga Ree, the colonist leader- the one who had sent the distress call.

Obi-Wan made a fumbling bow.

“I am an undercover operative, here on behalf of the Jedi Council and the Republic to answer your distress signal.”

Obi-Wan could feel the other two elder togruta regarding him with unbridled suspicion, but at least Octoga seemed to be listening.

“It's been almost a standard month, we assumed the Republic hadn't received the transmission.” The old Togruta’s voice was cracked and dry, but not openly hostile.

Obi-Wan bobbed his head respectfully, he wasn't happy with how the Republic had handled the situation either. But Octoga deserved the truth.

“There was resistance in the senate to act on your distress signal. Zygerrian representatives denied the claims and others cited Shilli’s recent hyperlane disputes with the Chorlian sector as a possible reason for a fake distress signal. Zygerria is a closed system and for the Republic to sanction judicial action they needed more proof. The Council acted as soon as they could...”

Octoga shook his head and Obi-Wan could see the anger in the other’s eyes. Quickly Obi-Wan pressed on.

“Which is why they sent my Master and I. Now that we have the proof the Senate demanded I just need to contact the Jedi ship, it's waiting for my signal. It will relay what I found to the Senate and they will approve the judiciary forces to act. The nearest sectors are all on alert for the call and can be here in minutes.”

“Well we may only have minutes,” Octoga said darkly. “This ship is scheduled to take off in the hour. If you have what you need, I would hurry to contact your Jedi.”

Obi-Wan nodded.

“This ships subspace radio will be enough for me to contact the cruiser. I just need to get there...” He mused out loud, keenly aware of the silence where his Master's voice normally was when helping to concoct a plan.

Octoga only shook his head.

“The only way from this hold into the rest of the ship is that hatch.” Octoga gestured upwards, and for the first time Obi-Wan looked at the high ceiling.

Nearly thirty feet above them, was a large open hatch. Attached to it was a retractable ladder. Clearly designed so the slavers could drop down food and water, with no fear of their prisoners escaping.

Obi-Wan grimaced. Even with the Force he couldn't jump that high. His eyes scanned the walls of the hold. Almost entirely sheer save for a few precious pipes and vents. But they would have to do.

Obi-Wan moved his gaze to the hold entrance where new Togrutas were being ushered in. The crewmembers guarding the door were faced away from them, making sure the line outside stayed orderly.

Obi-Wan took another minute to the plot his course and then turned to Octoga.

“I can get out and get help. Can one one of your people help me up to that vent grate?”

Octoga didn't looked convinced but smiled thinly, gesturing to a nearby Togruta.

“We can help you,” he rasped, grabbing at the man’s elbow, “but you must help us in return.”

Octoga nodded to the rest of the group, who merely stared at him before dispersing.

Obi-Wan gestured for this new Togruta to follow and they escaped the group and snaked their way to the back wall of the hold. Putting as many bodies between them and the guards as they could.

Obi-Wan looked at the grate about ten feet up and then scanned the walls, finally looking at the open hatch in the center if the ceiling, meters away from any of the walls. He had his doubts about this plan. Even in peak condition this would have been a challenging exercise. His legs still wobbled, and the palms of his hands were just large bruises. It would take all of his skills and training to escape.

But he had to. He would do it to save the Togrutas, and the other slaves.

Governor Ree’s companion, a tall and threatening-looking man with montrals that nearly doubled his height, bent down, cupping his hands so Obi-Wan could step into them. Like he weighed nothing, the Togruta scooped him up, and Obi-Wan struggled to keep his balance.

Obi-Wans hands found the large holes in the vents grate, allowing him then take strong hold there. As he climbed up with his hands, the tall man pushed his legs higher. Reaching as high as he could, Obi-Wan braced, pulling his legs up, hanging on with just his arms. Until his feet also found purchase.

Obi-Wan clung to the grate, easing his body up, looking for where to move next. The metal dug into his damaged palms and his half-numb toes, but he clung on like a forest animal in its tree.

He held to the grate a moment more, pulling the Force around him. He closed his eyes and envisioned his next move. The exact places where his hands and legs would need to grab. He opened them again, knowing he could waste no time. He had to move.

Obi-Wan pulled himself up past the grate, hands finding the smooth surface of of a nearby pipe built into the wall.

He found where impossibly small screws bracketed it to the wall, hardly enough room for one finger to grip.

But it was enough.

Augmented with the Force Obi-Wan let go of the grate and swung onto the pipe. His hands grabbing at any protruding nut or bolt, and his legs clinging to the sheer surface.

It took every muscle in his body to hang on.

Slowly, he began to inch further up. Shimmying upwards, desperately clinging to hand holds.

He was almost the entire 30 feet up now, and relief flooded him when his finger found the slim ledge that ran a few feet below where the walls met the ceiling.

He clambered on to it, just barely fitting his body. He could see the open hatch, but there was several meters of open air between it and himself.

Obi-Wan took took a few seconds to catch his breath. Grateful that his legs had stayed strong through the climb.

He knew he had reopened cuts on his legs and hands as he had climbed, could feel the blood dripping, but he barely felt the pain.

From Obi-Wan's position on the precarious ledge, he was facing the retractable ladder. It had been collapsed pulled up through the hatch, but Obi-Wan could still see the bottom of it hanging down.

Obi-Wan closed eyes on focus on the ladder, wrapping it in the Force with his mind. Feeling it's weights and its shape, trying to imagine that it was his own two hands that grasped the rungs.

He imagined holding on as tightly as he could, and then with with a swift movement, he pulled.

He felt the resistance like it was real, the ladder not descending as easily as Obi-Wan had envisioned. Instead it made a loud rattling noise but stayed in place.

Obi-Wan kept his eyes shut. He could think of all the eyes tuning up at at the noise, suddenly watching him.

He refocused, strengthening his grip and prepared for another vicious pull. But at the last second, he changed his thoughts. Imagining instead a light touch, gently guiding the ladder down. He brought his hand fluidly through the air and breathed out with the movement.

The ladder came down with a crash, extended a few yards down into the hold. Obi-Wan didn't have time to think. If the guards hadn't heard it the first time, they certainly heard it now.

Except- he heard a commotion on the floor. The guards shouting, and the prisoners shouting back . The Togrutas who had been the Governor’s protection seemed to have stirred up discontent.

It was a distraction. So Obi-Wan could get away.

And he didn’t intend to waste it. Obi-Wan crouched and sprang, relying on the Force to bring him to safety. As always, there was the horrible moment when his momentum ran out mid air, and Obi-Wan was sure he was fall to his death, but finding his center, trusting in the Force. And the last possible second when he felt the air below him like him like a cushion, the Force propelling him the last few feet and into the descended ladder.

Obi-Wan grabbed hold of it with a massive crash. A few of the beings below were staring, even shouting and pointing at him. But the guards seemed consumed with the Togruta captives. Even half-starved, they were large and fierce men and women, and the trouble they could give the guards hadn’t been calculated, as broken as they seemed. But now they had reason to protest, even a tiny hope of escape, they’d become unmanageable in moments.

Obi-Wan wanted to look back one more time, But he didn't have a moment to spare. He scurried up the ladder and out of the hold.

He immediately stumbled, some tendon in his leg that hadn't already been damaged had torn in the jump. But Obi-Wan breathed in the pain as he had been trained to do. Thanking his body for the message, promising he would rest and heal as soon as he could, and then exhaling the pain out, releasing it back to the force.

It was dark in the upper level of the ship, with low lights along the floor.

It took everything he had to make his legs move quickly down the halls of the cargo ship, and all his sense not to walk head first into the crew walking the halls. Guards would be heading this way soon, trying to catch him. Obi-Wan could only hope that they would assume he was trying to escape, to leave the ship.

Obi-Wan paused briefly and leaned against the metal wall, feeling the shivering pain all over his body. He was sweating, losing precious water. His stomach was empty- he could barely even remember the last time he’d eaten, probably breakfast with Bant the day before they left for the mission. Flinching, he tried not to even think about the skin of his legs. Just looking at the mess of blood and raw flesh was nauseating. His palms weren’t much better.

Pushing away the thoughts, he pressed on. Weaving back and forth on his weak legs, Obi-Wan tried his best not to crash into the walls. It would only make more noise. His chest tightened with hope- at the end of the hall there was an open space behind the last door, which shone with the light of a communications terminal. He cast out with his Force sense, and to his eternal relief, the space was empty.

Taking shaky, careful steps, he made it to the room.

The room was little more than a broom closet, a check-in station for the guards. Obi-Wan shut the door behind him but could already tell it wouldn’t hold and wasn’t designed to lock. Hopefully it was out of the way enough not to be discovered.

The comm station was set low, and Obi-Wan leaned on it, grateful. His hands on the metal of the console, his elbows locked to keep some of his weight off of his legs.

Carefully, he navigated the foreign display, finding where he could input the codes. He knew that all communications were monitored- the second he made the call, it started the countdown until he was found.

He punched in the last digits of the comm code to reach the Jedi Council members waiting with the extraction team, and waited. His shoulders tensed, half-expecting an alarm to go off above him.

The console lit up with a new image: the inside of a cool, sterile-looking ship, and the face of Master Plo Koon.

Obi-wan breathed in, ready to address him, to tell him about the missing colonists, but for just a moment the word Master stuck in his throat. He swallowed, blinking hard at the strange emotion that seeing a friendly face brought up in him, but he had already lost his opening to speak.

" _Padawan Kenobi?_ ” Master Koon’s voice was staticky, the double transmission of voice to vocoder and vocoder to comm station making him hard to understand. “ _Young one? What has gone wrong?_ ”

Obi-Wan swallowed again. He didn’t have an answer for that. “The- the colonists, Master. I have visual confirmation of a few hundred Togruta and-” He paused, trying not to cough at his dry throat, “-Governor Octoga Ree.”

“ _You are alone?_ ”

“Yes, my Master and I were separated, I’m on the transport that the colonists are being loaded onto- they will be taken off-planet within the hour.”

“ _What_? ” Master Koon snapped. He turned away from the communicator. “ _Mace! Come here! Captain. Get the engines prepped, we’ve been called in._ ” Turning back, Obi-wan watched a clawed hand get closer to the monitor. “ _Padawan. What is the ship’s identification number?_ ”

Utterly relieved to have the situation out of his hands, Obi-wan rattled off the ship’s number, and the make and model to be certain. He felt some of the tension leak out of his shoulders, and he took a moment just to breathe, his head spinning. He’d done it. This was the mission objective, and he’d done it. It was over.

Suddenly dizzy, he didn’t realize until the last moment that one of his elbows was giving out, and he caught himself on the side of the console with a cry. Clenching his teeth shut, he forced himself back up onto his protesting legs.

“ _Young one? Padawan? Padawan Kenobi, can you hear me?_ ” Master Koon sounded almost frantic.

“I’m all right, Master,” Obi-Wan said, hoisting himself back up to standing. “I- fell.”

“ _Can you tell us what’s happened?_ ” Mace Windu asked. While Obi-Wan had been lifting himself back up, he’d entered the frame; he looked drawn and worried.

“Master Qui-Gon and I were separated,” he said, trying to give only the bare bones of the truth. “I was taken down to the mining level undercover as a slave. I was put in... cuffs around my legs. They’ve made walking. Difficult.” He panted, trying to get his breath back. Clenching his eyes shut, he tried to calm himself. It was almost over. Master Koon would come and get him.

Swallowing over and over, he tried to stay calm and collected in the sight of these Masters he’d trusted implicitly from childhood. Keeping his eyes shut helped, though he felt almost as though he could fall unconscious. Just drift away and wake up on the way home.

“ _Padawan? Padawan Kenobi?!_ ”

He forced his eyes open again, staring into the gazes of two Jedi Masters. They were both very close to the holocam, leaning in towards each other. Obi-Wan blinked as hard as he could, trying to stay upright and coherent.

“S-sorry,” he stuttered, “sorry, Master. I...”

“ _Where is Master Jinn_?” Master Windu demanded, his voice stern, and Obi-Wan tried to hide his flinch.

“I don’t _know_.”Obi-Wan replied automatically, his voice cracking with stress. He tried to think, wondering what Qui-Gon would want him to say. “He tried- Oh no.”

There were footsteps outside his small closet, the loud boots that he had come to dread over the last few days. Shouted commands. The guards were searching his hallway.

“They’re coming,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He kept his arms braced on the console, his shaking knees bound to give out any moment. “They know I’m here.”

Urgently, Obi-Wan slapped his hand across the terminal, cutting off a protest from Master Windu. In his haste he had only managed to mute the call, the small projection of the two Masters vanishing from view. And just in time, the flimsy door he hid behind was yanked open, bending it at the joints.

Obi-Wan spun to face guards, but his legs finally gave out. Toppling to the ground, he was dimly aware that he was still in holocam range.

Two guards immediately towered over him, one barking into her comm unit, letting the rest know they had located the escaped slave.

The other guard lunged at Obi-Wan, fingers curling under the tight collar and using it to drag him forwards.

Obi-Wan struggled, trying to speak, but the pressure at his throat was too great.

“You’ve just become more trouble than you're worth,” the guard said darkly, pulling Obi-Wan up by the collar only to throw him back down onto the floor of the ship. Obi-Wan’s teeth rattled and the air was knocked out of him. The constriction around his neck had not lessened, and he could feel the edges of his vision getting dark.

He struggled again. Enough training and luck to manage a strike to the man’s torso, but it only served to irritate his captor.

“You would have survived longer in the mines,” the guard spat, pulling Obi-Wan up again.

The female guard moved to help her comrade, her large hands easily taking Obi-Wan by the ankles and assisting the other as they dragged him from the small room and into the larger hallway.

This time when they threw him to the ground, they both let go. Obi-Wan landed hard on his side, and couldn’t help the way his body curled to protect himself. He could feel the eyes of other guards gathered to watch.

His mind screamed at him to fight- but he couldn’t summon the strength. There was no reason to anymore. The Jedi ship was on its way, the colonists would be rescued. There was nothing to fight for any longer.

A guard's baton or lance struck him across the back, and he buried his head further against his curled up knees. The pain he could accept- but the laughter was worse. He had never imagined he would face death half naked, wounded and cringing on the floor. But now that it was here, it was an odd relief.

If he could take any solace, between the pain and the humiliation- it was that he knew he was dying as a Jedi. Unafraid of death, calm, and willing to join the Force. He held onto that tightly, as another blow rained down. He only hoped the end would be swift.

But as he braced for the next kick or strike, it didn't come. There was a shuffling of feet and quiet unease. The crowd around him drew back, and a new presence approached.

“Found it cowering in the comm station, sir,” said the female guard who had helped discover Obi-Wan.

“Trying to send a message?” The new voice asked with an edge of cool authority.

“Probably just hiding. Doubt a slave knows how to slice into com networks.”

“Hmm,” was the only response, then the voice continued, directed at Obi-Wan now. “On your knees.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan was sure all he could do was continue to lay prone on the ground. Everything hurt, and the thought of sitting again on his mangled knees made him want to retch.

The Force had seemed so close and so welcoming only moments before when Obi-Wan had been sure he was about to join it. But now reality reasserted itself. He was alive, and his mission continued. He was filled with a strange disappointment.

Obi-Wan struggled up, audibly whimpering as his bloody and bruised knees took his weight once more.

Above him stood a guard he had never met, he looked tall and regal, his uniform suggesting someone in high command.

“What I want to know,” the guard began in an almost bored voice, “is how you managed to escape. Who helped you- where did you plan to go?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, mind working quickly.

“No one, Master. There has been a mistake-” his voice came out weak and broken, not entirely an act.

“Do not lie to me, slave. Your punishment is already grave- do not make it worse.”

“It is the truth, Master,” Obi-Wan said desperately, pushing his words in the Force, “I am not meant to be here- I belong to Her Royal Highness- my Mistress and Queen. There has been a mistake, I only meant to return to her.”

As if for the first time, the guard commander who was interrogating him seemed to take in the fragments of ripped silk that still clung to his body and the few dented and tarnished bangles that hung to his arms.

“Sir,” the female guard from earlier tentatively spoke up again, “The Royal Trainer did report a missing pleasure slave- it might speak the truth.”

The commander who still towered over Obi-Wan snorted. “Then call her. I only intended to have it flogged- but I’m sure our beloved Royal Trainer will have something more creative in mind.”

Obi-Wan heard the female guard turn speak into her comm, but it was as if from a great distance, the words coming in and out. By the time Obi-Wan had refocused, the woman had snapped her comm unit shut. She seemed unsure.

“The Royal Trainer says this slave is to be brought immediately to the auction grounds.”

The commander raised a questioning eyebrow, and then shrugged.

“Than you had better hurry.”

 

* * *

 

Mace Windu’s jaw tightened, hearing the noises of the young Padawan’s altercation with the Zygerrian guards. He would not do the child the disservice of averting his eyes or ignoring what was happening.

Beside him, Plo Koon studied a computer terminal, the lines of his body tense with many emotions that Mace could sense him working through as his clawed hands checked and re-checked the flight path. Plo had always kept an eye on little Kenobi, as he did with all the stray infants he carried to the Temple. Indeed, if his Padawan, Bultar Swan, hadn’t been busy with her Trials of Knighthood at the time, it might have been Master Koon who had been sent to escort that transport to Bandomeer, instead of Master Jinn.

The guards who had mobbed the young boy slowly straightened and dispersed- Mace could see two of them carrying a limp form out the door in the background. One guard’s face came into close focus, and then the call cut.

Mace set the comm unit down with exaggerated care, almost wishing he could throw it at the wall. What were they doing to their children, when a young Padawan learner could emerge from an undercover mission so badly hurt? So lost? Between the enormous bruise on his face, the dried blood, the way he kept falling... Not to mention the vicious beating Mace had just witnessed. If they hadn’t given the Padawan access to the emergency codes too, he would have been shipped off to the ass-end of the Galaxy and the Order would have been down a promising student.

Mace felt out and understood the cause of his anger, and used it to urge himself not to let this happen again. Losing children to the cold claws of the sentient trafficking system was unacceptable to the Order.

“Why,” Plo said with a deceptively even tone, “was the child dressed in such a way? You signed off on this?”

Mace searched his memory. Overloaded with the political nonsense this mission had stirred up, he had skimmed over Qui-Gon’s final mission paperwork. He’d trusted his longtime friend with the sort of undercover mission he’d used to be able to do in his sleep; apparently, he should have given it a second look. He shook his head.

“I think all it said was that he was to be disguised.” He said. “I didn’t realize Malik would choose that sort of disguise.”

Plo looked at him, skepticism radiating from his aura. “Io knows better.” He said simply.

Scrubbing his hands over his eyes, Mace turned back around. The troops- an anti-trafficking task force put together for this particular mission- were lining up at the cargo door, and he and Plo ought to join them. “I wonder where Qui-Gon ended up,” he wondered out loud. “It’s not like him to have run this far afield- he usually falls on his feet.”

“For his Padawan to be in such a state?” Plo responded, a dark note in his voice. “He had better be in dire straits indeed.”  
Mace grimaced. Plo had a point. For the student to be so hard-done by the mission- what terrible situation had the Master fallen into?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there planes, trains, and automobiles, this is Sunset and welcome to the climax of our _lovely_ story! Those warnings for gore and violence apply particularly to this chapter, so if you are not down with descriptions of split skin and a lot of blood... frankly I don't know how you got this far, but that stuff features heavily in this one. It's heavy! It's angsty! There are tears and blood!
> 
> And just maybe, someone might see justice for what's been done...

Qui-Gon smiled on reflex at the attending slave who was pouring his drink. With a slight lurch, he realized he was being too polite, and winked up at her as well. The slim Zabrak girl was too well-trained to spill, but she jolted and flushed.

“I can send her up to your rooms later, if you’d like.” The Queen said casually after the girl had taken the tray away. “I’ve had her, she’s very sweet. Cries beautifully.”

He sipped his drink, something alcoholic but light enough for morning. The light of the late morning sun lit the Zygerrian palace like pure gold, showing the exotic hanging plants and sharp-edged artwork in their full glory. It was a beautiful, if vile, place.

“We’ll see,” he said simply as he picked up one of the artful little pastries. “I’ve not found the energy for little pleasures such as that, recently. Too much time sorting through bad business deals.”

The Queen hummed in agreement, raising her glass. “I as well. This business with Nemoidian delegation has been indefinitely tiring. Cancelled meeting today, late meeting tomorrow. ‘Can we reschedule? One of our toadies has dry skin that needs watering’...” She sipped at the fruity alcohol, the bubbles of it wetting the short fur around her mouth. “They must be glad of my generosity. I only charge them ten percent extra for my trouble.”

Qui-Gon gave her a small smile in return. “Her Majesty is generous, after all.” He sipped his drink, trying to formulate the right question. “They are an official _government_ delegation?” He asked. “Perhaps you ought to bring them to task, if they are so blatant. Threats of the blunt hammer of Republic discipline might work wonders for their timeliness.”

The Queen raised her eyebrows over her glass. “Bold suggestion! It could bring the dogs on us as well... but a disposable shipment and a stupid overseer, with a tip-off to the Republic... Of course, it may well eliminate trade with Cato Nemoidia all together. We have many allies in the Senate, but still...” She shrugged, a fluid movement that ended with her drink at her mouth again. “There are many troublemakers who would rather see our trade stopped.”

Qui-Gon threw back his drink, asking the Force for courage, for her not to see through his disguise. “And your allies?” He asked, brazenly. “What of their numbers? I spend too much time in the Outer Rim, and haven’t a clue who all is _in_ the Senate these days...”

The Queen crossed her arms, her half-empty glass tilted artfully, and smirked as she opened her mouth to reply.

There was a loud crash as a guard burst through the door. “ _Your Majesty_!”

Closing his eyes, Qui-Gon pushed his anger away. _So close_.

“What.” The Queen said, setting her drink down with a careful, cold sort of anger.

“Security intercepted a communication channel opened to a Republic ship just outside orbit-” The guard was panting, shifting his staff in front of him with nerves. “M-Majesty. It went to a _Jedi_ vessel.”

The Queen swept her hand almost casually across the table, shattering the dishes on the floor. “What?” She hissed. Her hand went to her belt, to the hilt of her personal electrowhip.

The blood drained from Qui-Gon’s face. This- _ruined_ his chance to find out who was really behind this planet’s dirty dealings. Made all his efforts in cultivating his disguise and making himself believable as a slaver, worthless.

The guard backed away, cowed. “Mistress- your Majesty! I- We caught the spy! We caught the spy. We _caught_ him.”

Something like a growl emerged from the Queen’s throat. “Who?”

“The- the pleasure slave, Majesty.” The guard stammered. “The one Ser Kilser traded to you.”

Qui-Gon went very still, his hand twitching for the lightsaber he’d left behind on the ship. He would need to play this carefully. Diving out the window and making an escape was an _option_ , but not an attractive one. He still needed more information. His fists tightening, he cursed his apprentice’s tendency to act without concern for the consequences- if Obi-Wan could have _waited_ another _half_ a day-

The Queen’s bright golden gaze rested on him, her lip curled in a snarl. “Have you anything to say for this treachery, Kilser?”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon said, his mind racing for a way to remain in her favor. Just long enough. Just for long enough to get the information. “I say- this was my mistake, and let me make payment for it. It was clearly ill-trained, with bad breeding and ideas above its station. I should never have brought it here.”

The Queen strode closer, her padded feet making soft sounds as she picked a path through the shattered remains of the dishes. The glass glinted in the light. “You are right. You should not have. And if I find you were in league with the little slattern-” Her breath came out in a tight hiss, and she snapped her jaws. She shook her head, and smoothed her fluffed fur as she stepped close enough to touch him.

“Prove yourself to me. Prove that you are, who you say you are.” She told him, pressing close to his body in a parody of a lover’s embrace. “I want the skin peeled off of its back, stroke by stroke.”

Qui-Gon swallowed down his revulsion, and let his hand come to rest on the small of her back.

“Yes, Majesty.”

* * *

 

Obi-Wan stumbled, his feet still felt distant and fuzzy underneath him. It took all his concentration not to fall as he was lead from the facility exit and into the auction grounds proper. He shuffled ahead of the guards who escorted him, the points of electrojabbers only ever inches from his back.

Obi-Wan finally allowed himself a small feeling of hope. _He had done it_. He had been prepared to die, had been sure he was about to. And yet, he had survived.

At any moment, the Republic Diplomatic fleet would enter Zygerrian space and seize the capitol, Masters Windu and Koon would arrive with them, freeing the slaves- freeing _him_.

He didn't know exactly what awaited him when they reached the auction stage, but the guards had suggested the Queen wanted to deal with him personally. Surely if the Queen was there, Qui-Gon would not be far off.

Obi-Wan felt a flicker of warmth at the thought. It had only been a few days, but he couldn't remember the last time he had been separated from Qui-Gon for so long. Even if Qui-Gon was still mad at him, Obi-Wan would welcome the familiar lectures and criticisms if it meant being his Padawan again.

Besides, Obi-Wan was confident now that the mission would be a success, the council would be happy- Qui-Gon might even be proud of him.

It was with renewed energy and hope that Obi-Wan walked out into the open space which served as the auction floor. Sunlight beamed down in harsh rays, bringing a heat to his skin he hadn’t felt since the start of their mission days earlier.

All round him rose stadium style seating, done in the same filigreed architecture he had seen at the royal palace. The rows were full of creatures from across the galaxy who had gathered for the auction.

For the auction itself, a large platform had been raised in the center, It's main feature a low block to present the slaves on. Standing next to that block was the familiar outline of his Master, turned away from him and still speaking with the unmistakable figure of the Queen in hushed tones.

Obi-Wan felt the prod of a deactivated electrojabber between his shoulder blades and stumbled forwards faster.

Squinting in the bright sunlight of the open arena, Obi-Wan tried to take in his surroundings. No doubt they would be forced to fight their way out. Plenty of guards milled about, but they seemed more equipped to discipline unruly slaves than to fight two trained Jedi. The stadium itself was large and open with many exits for patrons to come and go through- escape should be easy.

Obi-Wan looked back to Qui-Gon, hoping to catch his Master’s gaze. The Queen was stepping off the platform and heading in the direction of a speaker stand where she could address the eager crowd. Qui-Gon finally turned away from her, looking to where Obi-Wan stumbled across the arena.

As Obi-Wan caught his Master's gaze, he felt all the warm sunlight vanish, replaced instead by a clawing unease; the undeniable feeling in the Force that something was wrong.

Obi-Wan tried to smile, unconcerned with who saw the exchange. In moments they would be side-by-side again, fighting the guards, arresting the queen, saving the colonists...

But Qui-Gon’s expression did not change. His face was hard and set, barely looking at Obi-Wan, his gaze passing right through him... like he was nothing.

Fighting the slow dread building in him, Obi-Wan sent out a tendril of Force energy. Their connection had been silent, and Obi-Wan had not dared use it while he was captured, but if they were going to coordinate an escape they must reconnect.

_Master?_

Obi-Wan pushed the inquiry as clearly and loudly in the Force as he could. He needed Qui-Gon to hear him.

But if Qui-Gon heard, he made no reaction, Obi-Wan was met with only stony silence from his Master. Obi-Wan opened his mouth, to speak or yell, but Qui-Gon only turned away and walked to the other side of the auction stage.

Obi-Wan’s mind raced, trying to understand his Master’s plan. He must be missing something... some part to this scheme. But with the platform quickly approaching, Obi-Wan had to turn his attention back to making his legs work.

There was a short set of stairs that led to the top of the platform where Qui-Gon waited. Obi-Wan made to move on to the first step, and immediately realized that it had been a mistake. His knees locked and he lost his footing, the precarious act of stepping up was too much for his weakened legs. He stumbled and fell, his hands instinctively moving in front of him as best he could from within the binders that held them.

His elbows and hands slammed against the rough woods and his face was barely spared the same fate. He’d hardly collected his wits again when the painful stabs of blunt jabbers found the bare skin of his shoulders.

“Either get up or _crawl_ ,” one of the guards barked, the crackle of electricity punctuating his words.

Obi-Wan hurried to get his legs beneath him once more. Determined to walk- determined not to let his Master see him so completely broken.

He managed another stumbling step, only to feel his legs give out again. He could hear both elctrojabbers come to life. They would drag his limp body up the steps if he didn’t keep moving.

On his hands and knees again Obi-Wan scrambled up the last steps and onto platform, hating the way his limbs seemed to cooperate so easily now- as if crawling had become _natural_.

He’d barely made it when he felt the guards’ rough hands around his shoulders and under his arms, half lifting, half dragging him across the platform and to the block at its center.

Obi-Wan made to struggle, but before he could do more than squirm against their hold, he found himself pushed down across the block. His face and chest scraping against the rough surface, while the other guard pulled his bound hands up past his head, the binders attaching to something at its far end, keeping his body stretched and prone across the surface.

“Enough.” Qui-Gon’s voice was clear even above the noise from the crowd. “Leave him to me.”

Obi-Wan could feel the guards’ hesitation, but after a moment they both moved away and off of the platform.

With an audible sigh of relief, Obi-Wan turned his head as far as he could to see Qui-Gon.

“Took you long enough,” Obi-Wan smiled, forcing a lightness into his voice that he didn’t feel.

When Qui-Gon didn’t respond Obi-Wan pressed on.

“I found the colonists, Master. Republic ships are on their way- the occupation will start any moment. We can leave, I-”

“No,” Qui-Gon cut him off, pacing the platform, only to pause and take a deep breath. “You should not have contacted the other team- there is more work to be done here. You shouldn’t have interfered.”

Obi-Wan could hardly contain his incredulity, a dozen protests and exclamations forming on his lips and dying before he managed, “ _Master_! We can’t, the mission is done! I’ve already-”

“Quiet,” Qui-Gon snapped, stepping back closer to Obi-Wan, bending to down and feigning an interest in the binders that held Obi-Wan in place. “I don’t have time to explain this to you. You needn’t understand- simply obey. I am staying undercover until I have discovered the truth- this is far larger than we ever anticipated. We may never have another chance like this.”

“But Master!” Obi-Wan began, but was suddenly drowned out. All around them the crowd erupted into cheers and the Queen’s voice echoed around the arena.

Obi-Wan could barely make sense of her words, his mind was already a mess of panic and confusion.

_They were not leaving. Qui-Gon would not save him. Obi-Wan was to stay as a slave._

In a panic, he tried to thrash against his bonds, but his arms were held tight above him, there was nowhere for his body to move. He could feel a cry in the back of his throat- desperate tears building up in the corners of his eyes.

He wouldn’t- he _couldn’t_ \- return to the mines below the palace, to his sterile cage, to his trainer’s bedroom...

The thought sent new waves of panic through him, his thrashing grew stronger and the tears he fought to suppress were now running down his cheeks. They stung the open section of the bruise, making it hurt anew. To be so close to escape and have it ripped away- it wounded Obi-Wan in a way he couldn't explain.

Through the noise of the crowd, the Queen’s amplified voice, and his own heart pounding against his ear drums, Qui-Gon’s voice cut through.

“Hush, Padawan.”

Obi-Wan swallowed a cry, stilling his body in compliance with his Master’s command, a surprising softness to his voice.

“Quiet your mind and find your center- this will be a trial for us both.”

Obi-Wan blinked tears away in confusion. He hadn’t even considered what would happen now- for what purpose he had been brought here.

With sudden ringing clarity the Queen’s speech reached him.

“I will allow _nothing_ to threaten the prosperity of our great empire. No man nor government- not even the _Republic_ shall stand against us. Before the festivities begin I want to demonstrate for you all the wrath and might of Zygerria- and warn those who might harbour treason what awaits them should they stand against us!”

A deathly chill moved through Obi-Wan, any fight or thought of escape vanishing, replaced with a heavy cold seeping out into his arms and legs. Limbs he had just been desperately thrashing suddenly only dead weight.

“Master...” Obi-Wan said weakly, “Master, what’s to happen to me?”

Qui-Gon didn’t respond, but Obi-Wan caught a fleeting glimpse of his Master as he walked past. In his hand he carried a hilt, similar to that of the mining overseers, from which a sinewy cord dragged.

“You must be strong and brave now, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said softly. “We are Jedi, we live and fight and die so others may be free. You must trust me, Padawan, I would not ask this of you lightly.”

Obi-Wan fought back the words he was trained to say. He would have followed Qui-Gon to the ends of the galaxy- laid down his life if he had asked. But _this_ \- to be beaten,to be _tortured_ \- all for Qui-Gon’s mere suspicions of a secret plot?

He stifled a cry, feeling his body shaking against the whipping block.

Qui-Gon would say Obi-Wan’s fear came from a place of selfishness; a desire to put his own life and safety above the lives of those he was sworn to protect. Obi-Wan knew he would gladly fight and die if it meant bringing peace and helping others. And he also knew that if he was a good Jedi he could offer himself up, allow this to happen. As a Jedi he was meant to accept pain and fear with serenity and discipline, secure in the knowledge that his Master had a plan; that his sacrifice would not be in vain.

But Obi-Wan could not. He could hear it in Qui-Gon’s words, the unspoken request for his approval- his consent. The words that would allow Qui-Gon to act with impunity, blameless for whatever he was about to do.

Around him the stadium fell to a hush, the moment upon them.

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon repeated, his voice tense, “are you ready?”

Obi-Wan knew the right answer, the answer his master wanted- the answer he had given thousands of times before. _Yes, Master_.

But Obi-Wan would not. He didn’t dare say no, couldn’t bring his mouth to form those words- a direct opposition. But he wouldn't say yes.

Qui-Gon would be furious, _that_ Obi-Wan already knew. Once again he was jeopardizing their mission, ruining his Master’s plans.

But they would adapt. Qui-Gon would not go forward with this plan- not if Obi-Wan did not give his permission. They would simply have to escape and find another way.

It would be so simple for Qui-Gon to cast aside the slaver’s weapon, sever Obi-Wan’s bonds and begin their escape.

Obi-Wan held his breath, waiting for what Qui-Gon would do. The moment was dragging on and soon the spectators would realize something was wrong.

“Tal Kilser,” The Queen's voice rang through the stadium once more, “you may proceed with punishing this spy. Show all those who would interfere with our plans that we have no mercy for traitors and disobedient slaves.”

“Yes, your Highness,” Qui-Gon said loudly enough that he could be heard, then softer, “I’m sorry, Padawan.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes tightly, refusing to accept the meaning of the words. It was only now that Obi-Wan felt it, the static of the Dark energy that hung in the air. Only Obi-Wan knew how deeply the Dark Side had touched his Master after Tahl’s death. But Qui-Gon had not fallen to his demons then and he wouldn’t now; Obi-Wan had to believe that his Master would not Fall.

_Master- please. Don’t do this._

Obi-Wan pressed his forehead into the block. He wouldn't struggle, he had to trust in his Master.

_Please._

Then the first dull crack of the whip came and the crowd erupted in noise. Raucous shouting and hollering swamped the arena in a tumult of new energy.

Obi-Wan felt his body like it was not his own, aware on some level that his back was on fire, that blood was flowing freely from a new wound there. His body convulsed in pain he didn’t quite feel.

A second cracking noise and Obi-Wan felt the lash strike him again, shredding what little was left of the silk that had covered his shoulders. He felt it this time, the biting pain of the whip, its fibers designed to tear skin.

Obi-Wan tried endured the pain, tried to find his center as Qui-Gon had suggested. But Obi-Wan no longer had a center to find. The lashes breaking his skin were agonizing- but what was breaking inside of Obi-Wan was far worse.

The third hit came quickly, and the full horror of what was happening came with it. This strike lanced across both previous wounds, lighting them up with a pain Obi-Wan had never felt.

If he’d been trying to hold back his crying, it didn’t matter anymore, the crowd was so loud no one could hear him. Even Qui-Gon, mere feet behind him, wouldn’t be able to hear the noises escaping from his throat.

Every instinct told Obi-wan to retreat inside himself, to escape to the corner of his mind where he could wrap himself in the Unifying Force. But that place no longer existed, it had shattered when the first strike fell.

Obi-Wan knew he was bleeding pain into the Force, his psyche screaming louder than his soot filled lungs could. Even if Qui-Gon couldn’t hear the sobs that wracked Obi-Wan’s weakening body, his Master could not be deaf to his desperate begging in the Force.

It was with heartbreaking certainty that Obi-Wan knew his Master could hear him- and that he did not care.

Obi-Wan’s body convulsed violently again, the strikes raining down quicker and with more force. His mouth filled with iron and he knew he must have bitten his tongue. He spat and gasped as he fought not to choke on the warm blood pooling in his throat.

He could hardly breathe through the pain at all and each strangled breath was interrupted by a new blow. All around Obi-Wan the crowd only grew louder, the cheers and clapping increasing with every vicious strike.

At some point Obi-Wan had stopped screaming. There was not enough air to fill his lungs and he was too weak to do anything other than try to stay conscious.

And then even that was too much.

He’d lost count on how many times his Master had brought the whip to bear on him. The sensation had blurred into one horrible nightmare of sickening wet noises and a pain like fire burning across his back.

Obi-Wan didn’t want to be awake when Qui-Gon was finished- didn’t know if he ever wanted to be awake again.

He let his head roll to the side, his body being supported by nothing but the block and his bound hands. Every muscle in him went slack, but Qui-Gon’s strikes did not lessen.

It was only with dull distant horror that Obi-Wan wondered if Qui-Gon would let him die on this block. An odd sensation of relief came as Obi-Wan began to drift in and out of awareness.

While the pain didn’t leave him, his thoughts did, and Obi-Wan welcomed the thin darkness of unconsciousness.

* * *

 

Qui-Gon’s arm had found the right rhythm to the whip, a weapon he’d never before wielded, in a matter of moments. It was an instrument of domination, of power. It whispered to something deep inside him- how _this_ was his Apprentice’s proper place, this was where his student would finally learn how to conduct himself properly.

He tried so hard not to think of what he was doing. It was all a physical movement. His arm rose and fell. That was all. He could not soften the blows. He could not listen to the pitiful noises his student was making. He would not hear the roar of the crowd or the shouting of the Queen.

Try as he might for Jedi calm, Jedi serenity, it would not come. The closest thing he could find was a buzzing numbness that covered the horror.

Qui-Gon reflected humorlessly that he too had once been captured in the course of a mission. Held and weakened to the point of torture, under the none-too-gentle care of Zan Arbor, the insane scientist. Those were not memories Qui-Gon could forget so easily. Fights and battle wounds blurred into hazy recollections. But his time in captivity was still crystal clear.

But he _had_ endured. The Force had comforted him, allowed him to withstand the pain and the agony. To find strength and solace even as his body grew weaker.

Obi-Wan would find his center, he _must_. For all his flaws, Obi-Wan was remarkably resilient.

Besides, every mission had something to teach. Obi-Wan might struggle with this lesson more than others but Qui-Gon was sure he would find the wisdom. Sacrifice, humility, selflessness. These were cornerstones of their beliefs. Qui-Gon had found his own faith tested and renewed after his trying capture- but had walked away stronger from being brought so low. No doubt Obi-Wan could do the same- _if_ he were capable of being the sort of Jedi that Qui-Gon saw in him.

And maybe, just maybe, he would finally have learned to hold his tongue.

It was with a flicker of resentment that Qui-Gon was reminded why he had been forced to do this in the first place. His work with the Queen had been progressing so well, until Obi-Wan had meddled where he was not needed. Causing a commotion and casting them both into suspicion. What had he thought would happen? Qui-Gon could only do so much. Obi-Wan would have to learn to accept the consequences of his choice. Qui-Gon would not always be here to save him.

He was lucky to have survived this time with just a few wounds. Next time his recklessness might cost him his life.

Or someone else’s.

Tahl’s last words floated through his mind. And something inside him, something shadowed, said, _it was his fault. Obi-Wan slowed me down. It’s his fault she’s dead._

_He deserves this for letting her die._

Almost in shock at his own thoughts, Qui-Gon dropped the handle of the whip with a heavy sound. So caught up in his own mind he had failed to even noticed the Queen storm onto the platform with him.

“Someone get this ruined thing off my auction stage. And _clean up this blood_.”

A few attendants, likely slaves themselves, hastened to lift Obi-Wan’s limp body.

For a brief moment Qui-Gon felt his stomach twist. He knew his Padawan had to be alive, would have felt it in the Force if he was not. But he _looked_ like a corpse. His skin sickeningly pale where it was not running with blood, limbs bent at odd angles, head rolling when he was lifted gently from the block.

All at once, remorse washed over him. He wished he could have protected his charge from this.

But this was exactly why the Queen had to be stopped. Why her empire of cruelty and subjugation had to be rooted out and destroyed at its core.

It was not enough to save just the Togrutans. Zygerria had to be toppled. Or else more young creatures like his Padawan would be put through these horrors.

Obi-Wan must understand that.

And if he blamed Qui-Gon, so be it. Qui-Gon was used to Obi-Wan’s near constant disapproving gaze on his back, just barely hidden behind Obi-Wan’s mild manner and youthful face. He would quip and scathe the way he always did. His childish petulant remarks worming their way under Qui-Gon’s skin until he lost his patience.

A strong word would almost always put him back in line, but not for long. Only until Obi-Wan found another petty grievance.

It was with with a guilty twist of his stomach Qui-Gon remembered hitting the boy. _That_ had silenced him, and would no doubt remain as a reminder to know his place.

Lectures did no good if the pupil wasn't listening. Strong words were only so strong. Maybe this was what it took to reach his Padawan these days.

“Come, Ser Kilser, let's wash that blood off your hands.” The Queen said with a tiny, feral smile. “I think it's time we discuss some real business, don't you think?”

Qui-Gon allowed the queen to take his arm, carefully locking them together while avoiding the blood.

“I am so glad you have proven yourself to me. We should open a new bottle of champagne in celebration, hmm?” Nuzzling her sleek, furry head against Qui-Gon’s blood-flecked sleeve, she gestured with her free hand. “You- fetch me another champagne bottle. The vintage. A new partnership _deserves_ to be toasted.”

Qui-Gon smiled down at her, as flirtatiously as he could manage, and suppressed his nausea. It was just one more step closer to uncovering this plot.

For now, he could forsake Qui-Gon’s skin for Tal Kilser’s.

* * *

 

Far above, the Jedi ship broke atmosphere, surrounded on all sides by sleek cruisers marked with the Judiciary sigil. One or two broke off to dog fight with the few Zygerrian vessels that wouldn’t stand down.

But other than the occasional hotshot pilots who thought they could take down the Judiciary forces single handedly, all the other defense crafts had already retreated.

Soon the ships were flying low across the city. Wherever their shadows passed panic began to break out.

The cruisers split and headed for strategic sites, several aimed towards the space port.

But the Jedi ship continued its course directly for the Zygerrian palace- they would have to seize control of the government quickly for the occupation to be effective.

Just outside the palace, the ship’s sensors showed a large empty space, an open topped arena of some kind, ideal to land an invasion force.

In moments the dome rose up before them and then they crested the top and began their decent.

Jedi Master Plo Koon barely allowed the ship to land before he pressed the button to open the doors and lower the ramp. On another mission with different Jedi there may have been whispered words about patience or caution- but neither he nor Mace had the time or inclination to extol on Jedi virtues. Too much was at stake.

After Mace contacted the Council with a copy of Obi-Wan’s last transmission, Senate approval had been instantaneous and the Republic Diplomatic Fleet, which had been on stand by only one jump away, was called to action. The vote to occupy Zygerria had been just barely passed, and no expense had been spared outfitting the Judicial Forces, along with an auxiliary force whose entire purpose was in fighting the sentient trafficking system, for this controlled takeover.

All around, small ships buzzed. Playing repeated messages about the Republic occupation and ordering the Zygerrians Royal Guards to stand down. Already a few air skirmishes had broken out, but it appeared to be between Republic forces and privately owned ships. Likely criminals trying to escape the planet before they were detained.

Plo and Mace’s freight ship had set down in the only large open space within the city, the massive arena complex at the heart of Zygerria’s capitol. Once they had descended below the planetary jammers, Plo was able to pick up a signal from the tracker in Obi-Wan’s false collar. They were close.

The moment the ramp touched the ground both Mace and Plo hurried down it.

“I will find Padawan Kenobi,” Plo said, and while his tone was mild, it held no room for disagreement.

“Very well,” Mace said, walking quickly to match the Kel Dor’s steps, then grimly added, “I will be responsible for Master Jinn.”

Their boots hit the dusty floor of the arena and they moved to part ways. Pausing only for a moment to wish each other the traditional goodwill of the Jedi.

But there was an unmistakable anxiety to the words. _May the Force be with you. You will need it._

And then the currents of the chaos swept them apart. Mace moving to to help the Judiciary ground forces wrangle a group of uncooperative Royal Guards and Plo hastening to follow the tracker’s last signal.

The commotion around Plo Koon seemed to fall away, his mind actively searching for a single thread in the Force. His tracker could guide him only so far, if he wanted to find Obi-Wan quickly, he would have to do so with the Force.

His swift steps brought him across the arena, passing confused groups of merchants and pedestrians and those who he deeply suspected were slaves. In the disorder some looting had begun, temporary stalls and light transport being tipped and broken. He moved through it all effortlessly.

Only one thing in the chaos gave him pause. Off to his right was a larger temporary structure- a stage of some kind.

As he drew closer, Plo felt his spirits fall. All across the stage was the fine spray of blood and at its center was a low block stained red. Plo couldn’t suppress the shudder he felt, knowing full well what this stage had been used for. But worse than that- he was almost entirely sure he knew whose blood was still wet upon it.

The Force rarely gifted him such clear divination, but at this moment, Plo had no doubts about what had happened.

A young Zygerrian slave, dressed in silk and clutching rags, was moving to clean the terrible structure- or, clearly had been, before the occupation arrived. She was crouched under the stage, looking petrified.

Plo knelt down, stretching his hand out gently. “It’s all right, little one.” He said. “I won’t hurt you.”

She regarded him with wary eyes. “You’re Jedi?” She whispered, looking at the lightsaber at his belt.

“Yes. We’re here to help you all.”

She blinked at him, and moved a little closer.

“Did you see a young boy on this stage?” Plo asked. “The one who was hurt?”

“Spy in slave costume?” She asked, her voice thickly accented. “Oolie and others, they took him, try to clean him up. Her Majesty wanted him alive, but there were whisperings that he might die just of getting torn up.”

Plo tightened his hands into fists, and then let go. He was here. Medical attention was not far away. It would be enough.

“Could you point the way they went?” He asked gently, trying to control the growing anxiety in his voice that even the vocoder could not disguise.

The girl nodded numbly, one shaky hand raised to direct him towards a small arch between two sets of stadium seating.

“Thank you.” He said. “Stay here, and be safe. The forces in blue uniforms are trained to work with freed slaves. They will help you.”

“Freed?” The girl asked, but Plo had no time. He was already moving towards the archway off the arena, he could see it now; and there were shadows of people moving inside. Distantly, he heard the girl ask again, “What you mean,  _freed_?”

* * *

 

Past the archway seemed to be an entire network of dark tunnels. They lead to rooms that smelled like grease and spice. The rooms nearest the arena were clearly used for preparing slaves for auction. But deeper in were corrals and holding cells, walls lined with rings and cuffs.

It was impossible to miss the dark red smears along the walls and the chains rusted with blood...

But Plo could not spare a thought to the horrors right now. His singular focus was on his mission. On the child he had promised to protect- and who he had failed.

Swiftly moving down the dim corridor, Plo could see beings huddled in the rooms he passed. Scared and unsure of what was happening in the city above. In the hushed chatter he could hear the words _pirates_ and _raids_. But he kept moving.

Suddenly, like a rush of cold water, Plo felt the Force move around him. Pain and anguish suddenly so vivid he almost stumbled. His hand fell to the door in front of him, sure the source of the feelings on the other side.

He hesitated only a moment, steeling himself for what he was about to face.

Somehow, it was worse than he had imagined.

There was a scattering of beings when he flung open the door. Skittish creatures ducking and cowering in his presence. But Plo hardly noticed them.

His swift gaze took in the dark room. It was some kind of bathing space, water collected all across the molding, uneven floors with the deepest dents used as pools.

On the floor in one such shallow pool Plo could see a familiar little red nerf-tail sticking straight up. It was the only thing visible over a blood-soaked rag, covering the child’s entire back. Even in the dim light, Plo could see that the water around the boy was turning red.

Plo moved forwards, concern dulling his other senses, and nearly collided with a young Zygerrian as she walked in with a pot of water. Shrieking, she lost her hold, and grey-green water sloshed out.

“Zela!” Came a sharp voice. A pale pink Twi’lek woman darted forward, grabbing the handle of the pot. “Drop that and I’ll have your hide!”

“S-sorry, Oolie.” The Zygerrian responded, still staring at Plo Koon in the doorway, she was shaking like a leaf. “But-”

Oolie turned, spotting him in the doorway, and stood straight.

“I am here,” he said, raising his hands to show he had no weapon, “for the boy.”

“So am I.” Oolie said, one hand still on the pot of water. “This will help him. Herbs. We ‘ave ice packed on. We’re doing what we can, but he can’t be moved.”

“I have a ship. If we can get him there, he can be brought back from the brink of death itself.” Plo countered. “There is enough bacta on board to treat worse than this.” Not by much, but enough, certainly.

Oolie eyed him with distrust. “Bacta is a myth to us here. These wrappings will come off if he is moved, and if they come off he will start bleeding again. He’s already lost far too much.” She shifted her weight, taking the pot of water from the other girl. “Can I see to him safely?”

“I will not harm you, and I will protect you from harm if I can.” Plo promised.

Oolie nodded her head to the other girl, who raced off, and took the pot against her hip as she made her way to the boy. She knelt, setting the clay pot next to her. And she took the rags wrapped around her headtails, unwinding them, and laying them down on the wet stone floor.

Packing the wet herbs from the bottom of the pot onto the strips of fabric, she called to Plo. “You know this child? Are you his master?”

“A guardian of sorts,” he said, making his way to her. He kept an eye on the door. The slave quarters were not a priority for the Zygerrian guards to protect, but if any were to come along...

The Twilek narrowed her eyes at him, not reassured by his evasive answer.

“Good enough. He has been waking some, agitating himself.” Oolie packed the herbs down flat, sandwiching them between two rag-strips and sealing the sides. “Hold his hands while I tie this on. Keep him still and calm.”

Plo knelt down with her. Obi-Wan’s head and arms were propped up on the rocks at the shallow end of the pool, flopping there like a dropped doll. His face was bruised and his ear still bled around the tag that marked him for the slave shipment. Plo had seen these injuries in the holo. But the small blue staticy image of the boy had not conveyed the true damage.

He was struck with a sudden memory, watching the boy practice his katas over and over in a training room. Obi-Wan was alway so serious, so eager to please. The perfect Padawan, Plo had heard others whisper. Perfectly dedicated and completely selfless. Plo’s eyes flickered to the blood soaked rags on the boy’s body. _Had he even been able to fight back? If he thought fighting would reveal him as a spy..._

Plo grimaced as he took hold of Obi-Wan’s thin hands. _What are we doing to our children_?

Oolie took the first of the herb wraps, holding his torso close to the surface of the water with one hand as she pressed the wrap into place with the other. Plo felt Obi-Wan’s hands tighten in his, saw his head sway as the pain invaded his rest.

As the rags that had shielded the boy’s back were moved, Plo caught a glimpse of the damage.

The skin was torn and split with dozens of criss crossing marks. Most were shallow, but several had dug deep into the muscle. And where the lashes intersected the flesh was pulpy and red.

Even with bacta, this would leave scars.

Obi-Wan’s eyes fluttered. “Master,” he croaked out. “M’sorry.”

“Obi-Wan,” Plo said earnestly. “Can you hear me?”

The boy mumbled something else, but his eyes were hazy and unfocused, looking at something Plo couldn’t see.

Tentatively, Plo reached out a finger to brush Obi-Wan’s cheek, careful to avoid the bruises. The touch seemed to bring Obi-Wan back, eyes blinking rapidly like he had just woken.

“I’m here, child.” Plo pushed the words through the Force, hoping Obi-Wan could feel some comfort from them.

Then all of a sudden, understanding seemed to flood Obi-Wan. His eyes cleared, replaced by panic, his body jolted and Oolie swore under her breath as the movement disrupted her work.

“Keep him still,” she rumbled.

Plo moved his hands to settle on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, prepared to hold him if he started to thrash.

“Padawan. Obi-Wan- look at me.” Plo brought his face down to Obi-Wan’s level, hands gripped reassuringly on his shoulders. “You are safe.”

The boy’s eyes were still wild, and his expression was thin and pained, but Obi-Wan seemed to accept the words, staying still as he could.

“My Master?” Obi-Wan managed, his voice hoarse and words slurred. “Where is...?”

Plo shook his head.

“Master Windu is searching for him now. Was he also hurt?”

Obi-Wan stared back at him uncomprehending, his eyes starting to glaze back over.

“No- he...” but Obi-Wan trailed off and his head sank, going still once more.

“Almost done,” Oolie said from nearby, “but moving him will not be easy- I sent Zela to find a sled.”

Plo only nodded and then said cautiously, “Do you know what happened to this boy?”

Oolie didn’t pause from her work.

“You saw ‘is back. Pretty obvious to me.”

“Have you heard of another spy being captured? A human male who may have been with him?”

Finally Oolie looked up at him, her eyes squinted, trying to read his expression behind the vocoder and goggles.

“The only man I’ve seen is the one who beat him- the master he keeps crying for. Does that sound like who you’re looking for?” Her words were harsh, she was still skeptical of Plo. No doubt convinced he was simply another of Obi-Wan’s owners.

He turned this over in his mind. She could conceivably be talking about a guard, an overseer. Someone who had brought the boy down. But there was an odd ring to her words, and he felt something very off in the Force. Something wrong in the way the Padawan was asking after his Master.

“I sincerely hope not,” was all he said out loud.

At that moment the Zygerrian girl reappeared, dragging behind her a functioning, if rusty, gravsled. The remnants of coal and ore dust coating it with a thick grime.

Plo winced, it wasn’t ideal. But time was precious and he couldn’t wait for the Judiciary forces to arrive with a proper medical stretcher.

Obi-Wan was in and out of consciousness again. Whimpering when he was asleep and silent but for laboured breathing when he was awake.

Plo bent down to him once more, waiting a moment for the boy’s eyes to focus on him.

“We must move you now,” Plo brushed damp hair off of Obi-Wan’s forehead. “It will hurt... would you like to be asleep?”

Obi-Wan almost imperceptibly shook his head. “Not yet,” he managed shakily, “please... not yet.”

Plo Koon regarded him grimly, but would not use the Force on the boy if he did not wish it.

“I am here, child,” Plo tried again, “you have been brave for so long. You may rest.”

Again the smallest shake of his head and then a broken whisper.

“I don’t want this to be the last place I see.”

Plo wished he could banish Obi-Wan’s fear- insist that when he woke he would be home in the Temple. But a Jedi promise was not something to be given lightly- and it was with a stomach dropping dread Plo realized he could not truly promise this thing to Obi-Wan. The boy was weak and there was too much blood loss to be certain.

“Alright,” was all Plo said, “if that's your wish.”

Plo stood again, taking off the large outer robe he wore. Silently, Oolie moved to assist, helping to drape the brown fabric across the dirty gravsled.

“Support him from the center as best you can,” the Twi’lek said, moving to the opposite side of Obi-Wan from Plo Koon.

Plo nodded. He was hardly a stranger to violence and injury. He had been stationed on planets much like this, full of corruption and turmoil. And he had done his best to help those who were victims of fighting and war. He had been first in line to pull the still breathing bodies out from the wreckage of their ships and homes.

So while his hands were steady as they lifted the wounded boy, his heart was not.

It took only seconds to move Obi-Wan from the shallow pool and onto the low gravsled, but in those moments Obi-Wan’s body shook with pain. The Force pulsating with it, loud with his silent anguished cries.

Plo quietly hoped that the boy would pass out but he seemed determined to stay awake.

With quick sure hands, Oolie tucked the folds of the robe over and around Obi-Wan on the sled, keeping him warm and shielding him from curious eyes.

“I am in your debt,” Plo inclined his head to Oolie, “you have saved one of ours, it will not be forgotten.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are they really here?” She asked faintly. “Are we free?”

“The guards are fleeing.” Plo promised. “I cannot guarantee that this planet will be cleansed entirely, but at the least, someone will come down after me, to take you away from here.”

Oolie was only staring vacantly in his direction, her eyes watering. “ _Free_.” She repeated.

Plo nodded, giving her a moment to collect herself, and set the clumsy gravsled’s hover runners a little straighter. “You have saved the life of a Jedi Padawan, miss Oolie,” he said, his fingers touching Obi-Wan’s shoulder gently. “We are in your debt.”

Oolie nodded, still visibly struggling with her composure. “Take care of the boy.”

“I shall.” Plo kicked the engine of the gravsled into gear and, steadying it with his hands, led the injured Padawan out of the slave quarters. 

* * *

 

The return trip to the arena from the tunnels felt like blur. The chaos had only grown and confusion had given way to violence.

Republic cruisers now littered the arena grounds, and Judiciary forces had set up barricades around their temporary outposts. Blaster fire could be heard outside and Plo saw at least one Republic ship run strafing fire along the city streets.

Plo turned to the nearest cruiser, it would be faster than the freighter he and Mace had flown in on. Its military nature promised a well stocked med station on board.

He issued a succinct order to its commander, who had the good sense not to protest the sudden orders to return to Coruscant.

With a tenuous balance between urgency and care, Plo Koon steered the gravsled onto the ship. He had to hold it steady with the Force, its own internal stabilizers damaged from age and disuse.

It was with great relief Plo surrendered Obi-Wan to the medical droid and on-board doctor. He could already see bacta bubbling and running through tubes, ready to heal Obi-Wan’s wounds.

He waited until the first set of patches had been applied and for Obi-Wan to finally slip from consciousness against the soft and clean medical table.

Plo excused himself, moving to the cramped hall outside. They hadn’t broken atmosphere yet and he needed to contact Mace before they passed back over the planetary jammers.

He pinged the Master’s comm unit- but there was no answer. After another failed ping, he left a message.

“Padawan Kenobi is with me- we are heading back to Coruscant as I speak. He is currently receiving emergency medical treatment-” and it was here that Plo’s decades of professionalism faltered, his voice lost its cool edge and he said hesitantly, “He is in bad shape, Mace... I found him more than half dead in the slave quarters. The droids are running a full assessment, I’m not sure what else they will find... But _someone_ did this to him- not the guards.” Here Plo paused again, weighing his next words. “Be mindful when you locate Master Jinn... I think this situation is far worse than we had imagined.”

And then the comm cut out. They had passed out of atmo and the jammers blocked his signal.

“Hyperspace in twenty,” a staticky voice clipped on over the internship speakers. “Coruscant within the hour.”

* * *

 

Mace Windu walked down the hall, his lightsaber at his side. Its purple glow cast shadows on the walls that flickered, vines climbing the walls that must have looked beautiful in the sunlight, but in the growing dusk looked jagged and threatening. All around him emergency sirens blarred warnings of intruders and evacuations. The palace was in state of controlled panic.

Closing his eyes, he stretched out with the Force, sensing anything in this wing of the Palace that could be a sentient being. There were many frantic but quiet signatures; probably Zygerrian nobles collecting their things before fleeing. Only one was vibrant enough to be a Force-user, but it was... shadowed. He sensed it in a room at the end of the hall.

Mace walked faster. That was his friend, it had to be. Qui-Gon’s aura, though darker, was unmistakable. Mace grimaced. He hadn’t thought the man was so... _conflicted_ , even after Master Uvain’s death...

He already knew something about this mission wasn’t right... now he worried it was not just young Kenobi. Something had happened to Qui-Gon as well.

The door was locked, but in his haste Mace simply pressed a hand flat against it and shoved at the locking mechanism with the Force. It broke with a deafening crack and swung open on damaged hinges.

The room was cast in the eerie green glow of emergency lighting, and shrill tones came from tripped alarms. In this dimness, Mace could see it was an office, filled with datapad record storage along the walls- evidence of business deals.

Mace stepped inside carefully. A large man was rifling through the storage racks with single-minded determination, and while he had the height and build of Mace’s lifelong friend, his slaver’s costume, along with something about the way he stood, was off-putting.

Stretching out a greeting in the Force at the same time, he tried to speak. “Qui-Gon? We were called in-”

Qui-Gon jolted, the beads and braids in his long hair clattering. His eyes were wide, teeth bared. He was hardly the image of Jedi calm, and Mace halted his approach.

They’d only been here a few days, Mace reminded himself. It wasn’t nearly long enough to get lost in an undercover persona, or was it?

Slowly, Qui-Gon seemed to relax. “Mace,” he breathed, “it’s... good to see you here. Come help, I’m looking for evidence of Zygerria’s ties to the Senate.”

“The _Senate_?” Mace asked, incredulous. He knew Zygerria had allies in certain Senators. But _customers_? “How have you discovered this?”

Qui-Gon gestured to the ground. “From her,” he said simply.

Mace looked down- unconscious on the ground was a Zygerrian woman, dressed in fine clothes and jewelry.

“The Queen acquainted herself to me, and made some suspicious comments about the status of her customers within the Republic.” Qui-Gon returned to rifling through the stacks of data, not looking at Mace. He seemed lost and distracted.

Mace finally looked up from the unconscious woman, sprawled on the floor. She was deeply asleep, cleary in a Force-assisted trance. “How did you gain her trust?”

Qui-Gon went very still for a moment, and then resumed his search through the stacks of datapads. “You reviewed my paperwork- I appeared to be a slave-trader. From there, it was... easy enough.”

Mace could hear the evasion in his voice, and it made his fingers tingle. He realized he had not deactivated his lightsaber, tightening his grip and letting its familiar hum restore his balance.

“Qui-Gon,” he asked darkly, “Do you know where your Padawan is?”

Again Qui-Gon froze, his fingers twitching on the metal pads. “I... He was sent to the slave quarters, with the other cup-bearers. I haven’t had the opportunity to ask after his whereabouts.” He looked up, his now suspicious gaze piercing in the low light. “Do _you_ know where he is?”

“Unfortunately not. We received his distress call,” Mace allowed cautiously, “But I don’t know where in the facility he has been taken.”

“I will look for him once I’m done here” Qui-Gon said absently. He was still not looking at Mace, taking out datapad records to scan them before slamming them back into their piles. “It’s been a difficult mission- for both of us. We will need time together to debrief.”

“You shouldn’t have allowed yourselves to become separated in the first place.” Mace admonished harshly as he stepped closer. “The boy didn’t have the opportunity to explain what had happened during the distress call. I need your help to locate him.”

“I don’t-” Qui-Gon made a frustrated sound. “That’s not our concern right now. We need this evidence, Mace. Then later I can find the boy.”

“There is no _later_ , Qui-Gon. Your student is in danger _now_ ,” Mace said, finally exasperated. “He was injured in that call! Plo and I watched him get dragged off and beaten- _he could be dead_!”

A hacking laugh sounded from the floor, and Mace spun, his lightsaber ready.

The formerly-still body of the Queen of Zygerria raised herself up on her elbows. “So. You were in league with that little spying thing- all along,” she hissed. “I should _never_ have believed that performance on the stage-”

“Just ignore her,” Qui-Gon said, his back turned again, but visibly tense.

Mace held her at saber point, but did not stop her. Whatever she had to say, whatever Qui-Gon didn’t want him to hear- he had to listen. He would sort truth from lie later.

“That _performance_ \- playing the _slaver_ -” She spat, her thin teeth flashing in the low light. “I should have known from the second you gave me the boy that he was nothing but a pawn.”

“Qui-Gon,” Mace said, his voice warning. His comm chirped, but he ignored it.

“I said. Don’t listen.”

“You _fool_ -” she continued, her voice trembling with something like laughter, “don’t you realize there are cameras trained on that auction block? This Jedi will see what you really are, _Kilser_.”

Mace’s comm pinged again, but he just shifted his grip on his saber. “What _auction_?”

Qui-Gon only slammed the drawer of records shut in response.

With a small _click_ , the comm unit started recording a message. It was Plo’s voice, but Mace could only make out some of it.

“ _Padawan Kenobi is with me_ -”

“She is talking nonsense,” Qui-Gon said, his voice calm, yet his eyes flickering uneasily.

“- _receiving emergency medical treatment_ -”

“Nonsense?” The Queen hacked out, still lying flat on her belly. Mace kept eyes on them both. She continued, “why should I keep your confidence, _traitor_?”

“- _found him more than half dead in the slave quarters_ -”

“I have no secrets to keep,” Qui-Gon said steadily. “Reveal what you wish. I’ve done no wrong.”

“Qui-Gon,” Mace said, fighting to keep emotion out of his voice. “Tell me what is going on.” He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach that said he had a guess forming.

The Queen laughed, high and hysterical. “Go on! Tell him- tell him how you appeared to me with that pretty little wretch at your heels and threw it at my feet-”

“That,” Qui-Gon said coldly, “is enough from you.” He held out a hand and crushed it into a fist. The Queen froze, convulsed for a moment and went limp again.

“ _Qui-Gon_ ,” Mace nearly shouted. He was still reeling from the shock of Qui-Gon’s violent action, when he realized the comm was still recording Plo’s message. What had been a distant garbled transmission was now perfectly clear.

“- _someone did this to him- not the guards. Be mindful when you locate Master Jinn... I think this situation is far worse than we had imagined_.”

With a click, the comm unit stopped recording, and there was a deafening silence in the room.

Mace stepped forward purposefully. “I’m going to need your debrief now, Master Jinn.” He used as much authority in his tone as he could muster. “This mission has gone wrong enough already.”

Qui-Gon turned. Mace almost expected to see something strange about him, but no- he was still the same man Mace had been friends with since childhood, weary-eyed and stubborn. His fist still curled from knocking out the Queen.

Mace stopped advancing, hoping to make Qui-Gon trust him.

“I want to hear you out, Qui-Gon,” he said, not putting his lightsaber down. The binders on Mace’s belt dug heavily into his hip, and he tried to push their presence from his mind. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use them...

“She-” Qui-Gon rubbed his forehead, then started again. “I played my part well. I did what I had to. You know how undercover ops go, Mace.”

“I do,” Mace said, low and soothing. “But I need to know, what happened to your student?”

Qui-Gon’s face hardened, his eyes narrowing with tense lines. “He never listens to me. Ran off and got himself bound and tagged like an animal. It’s disgraceful.”

Mace tried to hold his tongue, shocked at Qui-Gon’s vehement answer. Instead, Mace simply said, “You would speak this way about a fellow Jedi?”

“Not a Jedi yet,” Qui-Gon said flatly, stepping past Mace on his way out the door. “Perhaps not ever. His performance has been _underwhelming_.”

Swallowing down offense and a certain amount of fear, Mace watched him stride from the small room. Cursing under his breath, Mace took a few zip-ties from a pouch on his belt; he only had one pair of proper binders, which he’d intended to use on the Queen. But his suspicions warned that they might be needed for someone else...

Binding her hands and feet as quickly as he could, Mace emerged from the room to find Qui-Gon not far ahead.

“He is a Jedi student- he’s one of us, Qui-Gon. If you don’t want him as your student, you may say so, but don’t disregard his accomplishments.”

“What accomplishments?” Qui-Gon spun to face him, his face showing rare open emotion and stress. “Abandoning his Order and his responsibilities? Walking away when we needed him most? _Letting other Jedi die_?” Qui-Gon gestured to the chaos around them, “Utterly ruining this mission and others? He has only gotten what he deserves!”

Qui-Gon’s shouted words echoed up and down the stone hallway. Everything else felt oddly quiet and dim now. Zygerria was falling apart- but in this moment, it was just Mace and Qui-Gon. The rest could wait.

Mace walked forward, determined to finish this. “What did you do to your student, Qui-Gon?” His hand moved for the binders on his belt.

Qui-Gon’s face shifted from desperate anger, to shock, and back again. “I am his Master. His punishment is my prerogative.”

With a great demonstration of calm, Mace disabled his lightsaber and hooked it to his belt. Using as cool a voice as he could manage, Mace simply said, “That is certainly true. But I will be reviewing those security tapes- to see exactly what _punishment_ you thought appropriate for your student.”

There was one tiny flicker of fear to Qui-Gon’s face as Mace got closer.

But that was all Mace needed to know his instincts were right. Plo’s message, the Queen’s taunts, and Qui-Gon’s own admissions... Mace had yet to puzzle it all together- but he knew one thing. Obi-Wan Kenobi had been gravely hurt- and Qui-Gon Jinn’s sleeves were stained to the elbow with blood.

Faster than Qui-Gon could see, Mace hooked his ankle around Qui-Gon’s leg, spinning him and pressing his front to the wall. Qui-Gon struggled in his hold, but Mace had sparred with him enough in years passed to know his usual tricks, and held firm. Shock and surprise was on Mace's side- Qui-Gon had been entirely unprepared for this.

Taking the binders from his belt, Mace fixed his friend’s wrists behind his back. Then, with a remarkably steady voice he said, “Master Jinn, you’re under temporary confinement until I can investigate whether or not you’ve betrayed and harmed your mission partner and Padawan learner.”

“You,” Qui-Gon panted, his face still against the rough stone, “are making the wrong decision, Mace.”

“Maybe,” Mace admitted, “but you’re still coming with me.”

He tapped his comm. “Captain. Send a guard to these coordinates-” he tapped a button to send his current position- “and have them collect the Queen of Zygerria. She’s unconscious and bound, but I have Jedi business to attend to.”

Mace eased his grip on Qui-Gon, allowing him to step back from the wall.

“I don’t know what to believe-” Mace looked Qui-Gon up and down. The other Jedi looked annoyed- a bit haggard- but remarkably calm. “But I can’t take any risks.”

Qui-Gon only shrugged. “Seems to me you have already made up your mind.”

Suddenly Mace felt very tired.

“Please, Qui-Gon- I want to be on your side. Don’t make me find out through a holotape- just tell me what happened.”

But Qui-Gon had settled into a steely calm demeanor, no longer rising to Mace’s bait. Mace thought he might not say another word and was surprised when Qui-Gon finally spoke.

“I took a calculated risk,” Qui-Gon said simply, “If the boy lives or dies- that is now the will of the Force.”

Mace felt his hands ball tighter where they still held Qui-Gon, anger flooding him and tainting his response.

“ _Move_ ,” Mace growled, pushing Qui-Gon ahead of him, harsher than the situation called for.

Qui-Gon remained serenely silent as they left the palace, for which Mace was thankful. The way Qui-Gon had spoken of his apprentice had touched a nerve in him- it had been so calloused and distant. This wasn’t non-attachment. What Mace heard in Qui-Gon’s voice was cruelty.

And while Jedi training was not always easy- it should never be cruel.

Qui-Gon didn’t protest when Mace brought him on a military vessel- one designed with cells. Some were already occupied with criminals and slavers arrested from Zygerria. Qui-Gon didn't look out of place.

“Mace,” Qui-Gon called just the other Jedi moved to exit the cell block, “I want to see him.”

“Who?” Mace cocked one eyebrow, still hovering on the threshold.

“Obi-Wan. I know I’ll be confined till the Council wants to hear me. But I want to see Obi-Wan.”

Mace could only shake his head in disbelief.

“No, Master Jinn, that would be impossible.”

Qui-Gon’s face hardened.

“He is my apprentice- you can’t separate us.”

“I can- and I have.”

With that, Mace exited.

On the other side of the door, he collapsed against the wall. An unusual quiver to his hands.

This was not over. Mace could feel he had just barely scraped the surface- and he was afraid to see what lay beneath.

Pushing down his anxiety, he pulled out his comm and signaled the Republic commander who had taken over the occupation when both he and Plo left.

“All video and surveillance footage is to be sent directly to the Jedi High council. Prioritize any holos from the main arena in the past 24 hours.”

There was some static and confirmation from the other end.

If Qui-Gon would not tell him plainly- he would have to view this alleged tape.

And while he was eager to know the truth... he was also filled with dread.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello, and merry Christmas Eve!!
> 
> Not a lot to say up top this week. I know everyone is excited for Obi-Wan to get a blanket and a hug. Its finally time for a little bit of comfort in this midst of all this angst. But to quote Luke Skywalker- "This is not going to go the way you think!"
> 
> Please enjoy and Happy Holidays!!

Plo Koon moved swiftly down the temple corridors. Since he had returned four standard days earlier, he had hardly seen anything besides the interior of the council chamber and the worried faces of his fellow council members within.

The politics of the Zygerria mission had, of course, been their top priority. Obi-Wan Kenobi’s name had only come up as an _unfortunate delay_ in senate proceedings, as Senators from both Zygerria and Shili were eager to hear his testimony, and even more eager to pick it apart.

As for the Jinn-Kenobi situation, as it had been informally dubbed, it wasn’t even on the council docket for another two days.

Plenty of time for rumours and liable to spread.

Plo forced himself to let go of his irritation at the painfully slow procedures, his impatience would not make the days go by any quicker.

Instead, he turned his focus to what he could do with the time he had. Finally granted a few hours rest from his duties on the council, Plo headed directly to the healers’ wing of the Temple, not even bothering to stop at his own room on the way.

He had not seen Obi-Wan since their ship had docked four days earlier. A med team had met them in the hangar and bustled Obi-Wan away from him. He’d want to follow, but the council was in emergency session and he had to attend.    

He knew Obi-Wan was in the hands of some of the most skilled healers in the galaxy, and if they could not save him, then Plo’s worried thoughts would certainly be of no use either. But he found that logic did not making banishing his anxiety any easier.

As he passed under the arches that signaled the start of the healers’ wing. He was instantly surrounded by cool energies, the sounds of running water and the smell of salty seaside air.

He wished any of this made him feel at ease.

Soon he was approaching the suite of rooms he knew was Obi-Wan’s care unit, curiously finding two figure already loitering nearby.

He recognized them as Padawans Tachi and Vos.   

And while he certainly didn’t concern himself with the  ever changing currents of Padawan social circles, he had heard enough about Tachi and Vos to be bemused upon finding them together. If not for their shared ties to Obi-Wan, he doubted their paths would have intersected at all.

As he drew closer, Siri gave him a curt nod and Quinlan waved casually.

“Here to check on your friend?” Plo asked mildly.

Siri shrugged. “Bant is with him now. We haven’t been let in yet.” She scowled and checked her chrono. “And if council is out of session I should be with my Master.”

“I’m sure Adi would understand,” Plo said gently.

“Oh, absolutely. She’ll try to shoo me away as soon as I arrive,” Siri said with a dark laugh, “But these emergency sessions are running her ragged. If I’m not there I’m sure she will just work through her break without rest...”

Quinlan elbowed her good naturedly.

“You can’t leave yet- you’re my hall pass.”  

Siri groaned and swatted his elbow.

“I already said I wouldn’t cover for you.”

“But-!”

Plo coughed gently, in their argument, both Padawan’s had seemed to forget he was there. Tachi looked embarrassed, but Vos only gave him a lopsided grin.

“I should get back to class,” he said reluctantly giving Siri a none-to-subtle wink as he moved away, “Say hi to Obi-Wan for me!” With a final wave he started an easy jog. Plo Koon noted he was heading towards the meal hall and _not_ the academic wing.

“I should go too,” Siri said, but didn’t move. After a long pause, she continued, “Quin’s more worried than he lets on- we both are. But he- he doesn’t know yet...”

“Know what, young one?” Plo moved closer to her, and kept his voice low and neutral.

She shrugged and bit her lip.

“It's not a big apartment, and Master doesn’t hide things from me,” was all Siri said in response, then shook her head. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Luckily,” Plo put a comforting hand on her shoulder, “it is not your responsibility to know all the answers.”

“But it's yours?” There was a flash of steel in her voice, but just as quickly she dropped her eyes, “Sorry.”

But Plo did not begrudge the young girl her concerns. He’d wondered much the same thing all morning as he sat through council deliberation. It rarely felt like they had any answers at all...

“Why don’t you attend to your Master,” Plo let his hand drop from her shoulder, “My mind will be more at ease knowing Adi is in your good care.”

Siri managed a half smile.

“Yes, Master Koon.” She started to walk off, only to pause and turn to him again. When she spoke, her voice was tight with controlled emotion. “Please take care of Obi-Wan.”  

Plo could only nod. “I will do my best.”

Siri let her hard gaze linger on him a moment longer, and then walked out under the arch, returning to the larger temple halls.

Once she had disappeared from view, Plo turned and entered the suite of rooms.

The apprentice healers didn’t even attempt to stop him as he walked purposefully through the lobby and into the viewing room. He only halted when Vokara Che blocked his path.

“How is he?” Plo didn’t have time for greetings or pleasantries.

“Resting,” she said simply and then gestured to the window next to them. It was one-way glass that allowed those in the viewing room to observe the patient- but for the patient in the room it would look totally opaque.

Plo hesitated, he would rather be next to Obi-Wan’s bed than behind glass, but he let go of his impatience, and he and Vokara moved to look through the window.

Inside the sterile room, Plo could see Obi-Wan’s form on a healing bed. Still on his stomach, his back swathed in bacta patches and wrappings. Next to him, Padawan Eerin rested as well. Her head propped on her arms as she dozed on the edge of the bedding.

They watched the two silently for a while, appreciating the tender moment. Knowing that soon they would have to interrupt.         

“Would you like to hear my assessment?” Vokara finally said. “I was about to send the official report to the council- but I will tell you first.”   

“Please, do.” Plo found his center, prepared for whatever the Chief Healer might reveal. Vokara knew nothing about the mission Obi-Wan had been on- he was interested to hear her impartial opinion.  

“The worst damage was to his back and legs. Bacta has been used to treat the worst wounds, but the nerves and muscles will be stronger if left to re-grow on their own from here. With time and training he will heal completely.”

“And what do you deduce caused these wounds?” Plo tried to keep his voice flat, but some of his worry leaked out anyway. Vokara was as crisp as ever.

“The nerves in his legs were damaged by some sort of restraints- most likely the kind outlawed by the Republic. The surface damage is is mostly abrasions- like one might get from crawling across rough ground,” here Vokara finally paused, thinking, “I can only guess, but that boy spent at least three days on his knees- they were even starting to dislocate. The abrasions on his hands also lead me to believe he was crawling for great lengths of time.”  

Plo envied how evenly Vokara could say the words, he knew if he spoke now his voice would not be so steady.

He remembered Obi-Wan’s blue imagine on the holo projector- what had he said?  That he had been cuffed and walking was _difficult_? Plo hadn’t imagined that to mean he had spent the whole mission being forced to crawl through the compound. That he had still successfully completed this mission was- well it was remarkable to say the least. But that was a sorry consolation...

“And his back?” Plo managed to ask calmly.

“His back was far worse. The wounds were deep and many, synthskin is holding him together for now. This damage was _inflicted_ \- a whip of some kind. Low-tech, not plasma or energy as there were no burns.”

Here Vokara stopped speaking, contemplating her next words.

“What I am about to say is not in my report- it is pure speculation. But I- I think this may be relevant to you.”

Plo nodded solemnly, Vokara was not one to make baseless conjecture.

“It is impossible to tell just how many individual wounds were made- but it was at least twenty- and could be almost double. The blood loss caused was... significant. Between that and the pain itself- he would not have been able to remain conscious the whole time.”  

“Yes, when I found him he was passed out,” Plo confirmed, but had yet to understand Vokara’s point. “That doesn’t seem like unreasonable speculation?”

“The speculation, Master Koon, is that according to my calculations- Padawan Kenobi likely passed out within the first ten strikes.” She paused, uncharacteristically agitated, “Whoever beat him continued for _at least_  ten more strikes before stopping- and I suspect a great many more.”

Plo let the gravity of that statement hit him and couldn’t find his words for a long moment, until he simply said, “I see.”

When he said no more, Vokara returned to her rapid clipped report.

“Other injuries were mostly superficial. The damage to his ear and face has already started to mend, no need for bacta. There was dust and toxins in his lungs, but he wasn’t exposed long enough for any real damage. He is no longer in any danger.”

“Thank you, Vokara,” Plo said at last. “May I see him now?”     

She nodded slowly, but seemed like she want to tell him more.

“Yes,” she finally said, “it's best you see him yourself.”

 

* * *

 

Plo put a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder, but despite his light touch she jolted awake.

“Padawan Eerin, thank you for staying with him.” Plo motioned her to stay sitting, and pulled out another chair for himself. “How has he been?”

Bant took a moment to fully take in her surroundings, but as her large eyes passed across Obi-Wan, it all seemed to come back to her. She looked weary for one so young.

“I’m not  a healer...” she began nervously, “I- I’m sure I couldn’t say...”

“Master Che says you’ve hardly left Kenobi’s side, your observations are invaluable.”

Bant flushed a little but still looked away.

“He has hardly been conscious... When he speaks it’s... nightmares _,_ delusions. I-”

“What does he say?” Plo kept his voice neutral, but insistent.  

Bant seemed further one edge, her gaze only on Obi-Wan’s sleeping form.

“They are just nightmares. From the drugs and the pain I’m sure. But... he cries for help- for _mercy._ I don’t know what he is seeing, he looks right through me even when he is awake. He is somewhere else. He says he’s cold. He calls for his Master... and someone else- some _mistress._ I don’t know who he means...” Bant’s faltering words finally trailed off. “I’m sorry- I just don’t know.”

Plo nodded. “You’re doing fine, Padawan. What else.”

Bant seemed to coil even further into herself, when she finally looked to Plo again, he could see tears gathering in her already wet eyes. Finally the words tumbled out of her mouth, panicky and rushed.

“I should have stopped this- I suspected. I thought this might be happening and I didn’t tell anyone. This is _my fault._ I just- I was afraid. And now he’s hurt and I-. _”_

“Slow down,” Plo said earnestly, “This is not your fault, and blame is not the Jedi way.”

Bant nodded numbly, brushing tears away.

“I know-” Bant tried again haltingly, “I know how serious this is- what I’m about to say. But I should have said it sooner.”

Plo stayed silent, only nodding to show he was listening.

“But-” Her voice cracked a bit and she had to pause and gather her words again, “I believe that Master Jinn has done this- that he has hurt Obi-Wan.”

Bant began to crying silently, speaking the words had clearly taken much out of her. Plo kept his face impassable. The rumours of Qui-Gon’s arrest were circulating slowly- he needed to know _why_ Bant thought this...

“This is a serious allegation,” he began, “why do you think this?”

Bant rubbed her face to clear away the tears. Her features looked set now, committed to what she had done.   

“Because I don’t think this is the first time.”

Plo felt the words like a punch to the stomach. His own calculated demeanor slipping just a little.

“Master Jinn has done this _before?_ ” The vocoder could not disguise the waver in his words.

Bant chewed her lip, fidgeting nervously.

“I have no evidence- but you didn’t see him, Master Koon. After the incident on Melida/Daan. Obi-Wan was-” Bant paused to search for the words, “He was _scared._ Scared of his Master...”

“It was complicated situation-” Plo tried to suggest, but Bant kept on.

“I saw the way he would flinch and jump around Master Qui-Gon,” Bant shook her head, angry now, “I knew Obi-Wan had stopped eating- stopped sleeping. But he got better after a time- and I thought it had all been my imagination. So I didn’t say anything... But then Tahl and New Apsolon...” Bant curled her fists and banged the edge of the bed. “And now _this._ ”                

“You didn’t know,” Plo said, not bothering to sound impartial. He wouldn’t lie to this girl.

“But I _did_ know, Master. I was just too scared to speak up... If I had- Obi-Wan wouldn’t...”

Plo reached out to squeeze her shoulder.

“You are not to blame. You have been a good friend to Obi-Wan. And this matter is out of your hands now... It is the Council’s job to seek out the truth. But thank you for trusting me with this information.”

Bant only nodded.

Plo wanted to say more, but a priority message chimed on his datapad.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, taking out the device.

It was a message from the council. Their emergency session would start again in twenty. At the very bottom of the attached minutes from the last session was a video file simply titled-  _Zygerria Security Footage - Arena Cam 21.e_

Plo’s heart jolted.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan paced in front of the council room doors.

This was the first day he had been up and moving by himself. The days in the temple healing center all blurred together, Obi-Wan dimly recalled he had been allowed to stumble about his room with supervision from the healers. He remembered falling more often than not and being swept up and back to his bed.

Last night was the first time he was allowed to sleep in his quarters. The process of getting undressed and showering by himself had be been difficult. And more than once Obi-Wan's legs still gave out on him. The healers had said that the nerve and muscle damage would repair themselves. That the best medicine was to keep using his legs and rebuild the lost tissues.

But exhausted and alone at midnight, walking from where he sat in his shower all the way to his bed seemed an impossible task.

And though it made his ears burn with shame, Obi-Wan resigned himself to more crawling while his legs healed. He had silently prayed that it wouldn't be the moment Qui-Gon decided to return to their room.

But Qui-Gon never came and the door leading to his room was locked. Obi-Wan heard no noise from within, and could only guess where his Master was.

Which was what worried Obi-Wan the most at the moment.

Obi-Wan hadn't seen his Master since the mission ended.

Qui-Gon had not visited him while he was in the healers wing, though Obi-Wan wasn't surprised by that. Qui-Gon was busy and in the past rarely checked in on Obi-Wan when he was injured and healing.

But Obi-Wan knew he was being met with odd silence when he had asked after his Master. The healers, Plo Koon, even Bant had been evasive.

Obi-Wan had begun to worry that something horrible had happened to Qui-Gon.

That fear was only intensified when he had received this council summons. The message had declared it as a standard debrief from the mission- but it noted that he would be giving it alone.

That had never happened before. Occasionally Qui-Gon had given solo debrief when Obi-Wan was tasked with something else post-mission.

But the council never called on a Padawan without their Master to give as mission report.

Whatever was keeping Qui-Gon busy must be especially important if he couldn't find the time to report to the council.

Finally the light on the door that signaled they were ready for him lit up. A different kind of weakness rushed through his legs, but he forced himself to walk forwards and through the door.

He'd stood here often enough that it should have been at least a familiar anxiety. But the feeling of being looked out, studied, _measured,_ by the council member that encircled him had never been more discomforting.

He reached the circular design in the tiles that that told him where where to stand. Normally this was Qui-Gon's spot, Obi-Wan off to his right and slightly behind.

But now Obi-Wan stood alone, and and he could feel the many eyes looking looking at him. He fought the urge to pull his robes tighter. To shrink into himself and make his presence smaller.

Instead he kept his hands politely clasped, appropriate for a Padawan to do.

He bowed on instinct and immediately regretted it. The wounds on his back were still healing the new skin and stitches still tight and easy to tear. He visibly winced and hurriedly straightened his back again.

He felt his face flush with embarrassment. Didn't want to look at any of their faces. The pity, or disapproval he was sure waited there.

He just wanted people to stop _looking_ at him.

“Padawan Kenobi,” Yoda’s unmistakable voice rasped. “Feeling better, are you, I hope?”

Obi-Wan forced himself to look up and train his eyes on Yoda’s ear, he couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes, not fully.

“Yes, Master. The healers were very good to me.” Obi-Wan dipped his head as he spoke. He had always struggled with maintaining eyes contact while he spoke, but now it was a visceral fear. Keeping his head down felt safe, correct. It would be a long time before he felt comfortable looking into a Master's eyes again.

But he made himself look back up, he knew it would be another lecture if he didn't.

Jedi were strong and serene, easily meeting conflict unflinching. Jedi were not intimidated by King or queen or criminals. He had been taught taught since he was a child to stand his ground, politely but firmly.

But even back in his robes, in the temple, his Padawan braid reassuringly against his shoulder, Obi-Wan still didn't feel like a Jedi again.

And he worried that that he never would.

Mace must have seen the mood pass across Obi-Wan's face because he furrowed his brow and said, “Are you alright to stand through this meeting? We would have waited longer if this weren't so urgent. But if you need to sit or to rest...?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, thank you, Master. I am fine. If we could just begin?” he suggested and hoped it wasn't wasn't too forward. But he's could already feel his knees locking, and he really didn't want to collapse in the council room.

“Yes, of course.” Mace nodded, quickly checking his datapad before saying. “You were on com silence as soon as you landed on Zygerria. That was Qui-Gon’s idea, wasn't it?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes, Master. All transmissions on Zygerria are closely monitored, if the frequency was hacked it could have exposed us.”

“So you had no way to contact one another or the Temple if you were separated?” Mace’s voice was still neutral, but Obi-Wan had a growing sense of unease. This was not how a typical debrief went- though he supposed this wasn't a typical mission.

“Just the emergency codes, Master,” Obi-Wan said flatly.

“And you did become separated, didn't you?” Mace asked.

Obi-Wan couldn't help his quick glance between the faces watching him. Mace seemed to already know some of the missions details- had they already talked to Qui-Gon? If so- why was he also being interviewed?

“Yes, shortly after arriving the situation got- complicated...” Obi-Wan finished weakly. Not sure what answers the council was looking for from him.

“Was Qui-Gon captured?”

“No, Master.”

“Were you captured?”

This time Obi-Wan paused. Though he couldn't pinpoint why, it felt like a trap. He wasn't imagining it, there were the almost imperceivable signs of the other council members leaning closer. Waiting on this answer.

But _why?_

He was certain now that Qui-Gon had already briefed them on their mission. There was no reason for Obi-Wan to be answering these questions again- no reason they would want to hear the same account twice.

Unless of course they thought they might hear different accounts.

Obi-Wan swallowed hard and knew it wasn't missed by the council. Obi-Wan knew all too well that Qui-Gon occasionally fudged the facts on missions. Never anything important, well not usually.

How would Qui-Gon have answered this?

“No,” Obi-Wan finally said, aware that the pause had been too long. “No, Masters, I wasn't captured.”

For the first time Mace reacted to his answer, his eyebrow raising almost imperceptibly.

“Then how did you two find yourselves separated?”

Again Obi-Wan wavered. Fighting the urge to brush his hand over the now barely visible bruise on his cheek.

“We had an opportunity to explore different leads,” Obi-Wan said diplomatically, “Qui-Gon was gaining trust with the queen, I went to search the slave facility.”

“And this was a plan you and Qui-Gon discussed?” Mace was not taking Obi-Wan's vague answers as well as he had hoped.

“Not exactly,” Obi-Wan mumbled, “it was a- an in-the-moment decision. We didn't have time to discuss it fully .” Obi-Wan knew his face was flushing, could feel the blood in his ears turning them pink. He wasn't _lying,_ he told himself. That had clearly been Qui-Gon's plan the whole time. Obi-Wan had just been too stupid to catch on. No need to tell the council those details. How he had cried in a cage thinking he had been abandoned, when he should have been working the mission.

Obi-Wan hoped they would soon move on onto the Togrutas and the crimes of Zygerria. They would need Obi-Wan's testimony to pursue justice.

But Mace was not off the topic yet.

“And how did you gain access and investigate the facility?”

“I was undercover,” Obi-Wan said firmly, “I posed as a slave.”

“Was this when your legs were restrained, young Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan swiveled slightly to look at Master Koon. He hadn't spoken yet this meeting, and unlike Master Windu, he could hear the sympathy in his voice. Obi-Wan wasn't sure if it was better or worse. But no matter, surely they had all seen his medical reports by now, there would be no hiding it.

“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan said, unwilling to elaborate on on the subject. Besides, it was irrelevant.

“What about the identification tag?” Master Koon pressed, not unkindly, but clearly asking for Obi-Wan to share more details than he was.

Obi-Wan couldn't help squirming at the memory.

“No, Master, that happened later. And was my own doing. I had a lead where the colonists were and the quickest way there was-” he couldn't help the tiny waver in his voice, the scar on his ear throbbing, “was to mark myself for the same shipment.”

Plo Koon nodded solemnly at his answer, but soon Yoda cut in and Obi-Wan looked ahead once again.

“At great risk you put yourself, Padawan kenobi. Dangerous, this plan was.” Yoda tapped his stick with his words. “Your Master approved of this, did he?”

“Yes, it was-” but Obi-Wan caught himself. Clearly _Yoda_ did not approve of the risks he took, and Obi-Wan wouldn't let his Master take the blame for his actions. Besides, he had found the colonists. That was all that mattered.

He started again, nodding politely.

“As I said, Master Yoda, we didn't have time to talk out the details. My Master followed his instincts and I followed mine. Any risks or poor decisions were entirely my own.”

Usually that appeased the Council. If they didn't approve of your actions it was simplest to acquiesce, bow your head and reflect on your mistakes. Qui-Gon liked to fight them. Obi-Wan had stood in this room for hours listening to his Master debate the council. Qui-Gon only ever left frustrated, and it promised an unpleasant night in their apartment.   

But the council didn't seem appeased. Maybe they had heard these hollow words too many times. Yoda and Mace shared a brief but knowing glance.

“Many injuries you sustained, of your own fault you claim all these?” Yoda said, his voice troubled.

Obi-Wan shifted on his feet, feeling his knees wobble with the movement. He could hardly forget his injuries, they still pained him. But he had been trying not to dwell on them.

“Yes, Master,” he forced the words out. “My injuries are my own.” They felt wrong and sour in his mouth- but what else could he say? Shifting blame to others was not the Jedi way. If you were injured in a fight it was because you needed more practice, if an enemy surprised you it was because you had not been aware. When Qui-Gon hurt him... it was because he had deserved it. Because he was endangering their cover. Because Obi-Wan had given him no other option. His fault- not Qui-Gons. He could see that now.

Obi-Wan watched the uncomfortable gazes shared by the council. They didn't like his answer and he could feel it. But he didn't know how to please them while still protecting his Master.

“Padawan Kenobi,” Mace finally said, and Obi-Wan almost flinched at his own name. “Young one, when we arrived, Master Koon discovered you... very hurt, to say the least. We don't enjoy making you relive this, but we need to know- what happened between your distress call and when the extraction team arrived?”

Obi-Wan bit his lip. He was not Qui-Gon, he had never outright _lied_ to the council before. But something heavy in his gut told him that Qui-Gon had given them only a version of the truth. But Obi-Wan had no way to know what that was... his mind raced and he could feel all the eyes of council watching him. It felt worse than the arena on Zygerria. His robes may as well have been his ripped silks for how exposed he felt.

“An overseer,” Obi-Wan said in a strangled voice, keenly aware of how disingenuous he sounded. “The guards discovered me sending the distress call... dragged me away and- and had me beaten.” Every word cracked worse than the one before and Obi-Wan could barely contain the sob building in his throat. Even the half truth was painful to say. He wished more than ever to curl up and disappear.

He didn't have to look up to know the council was unhappy with his answer. There was a long pause before Master Windu spoke again.

“Look at me, little one.”

Obi-Wan obeyed, blinking hard to remove any tears from the corners of his eyes. He wasn't a _child_

“You are safe now,” he said gently and the words took Obi-Wan by surprise. The tears he had just pushed back threatening again to run down his cheeks. “You have been through a great trial for one so young. And you did a great service to the galaxy helping to save the Togruta colonists and expose the Zygerrian queen.”  Mace paused, his brow knitting again, “but I fear at too great a cost.”

Obi-Wan felt his stomach turn to ice. He had failed. He wasn't sure how yet- but he had failed. it was not a single action Obi-Wan had taken- it was something bigger than that. A personal failing as a Jedi, something he couldn't even see. He still held his hands clasped in front of him, and he could feel when he nails were cutting it to the skin.

“I'm sure,” Mace continued slowly, “that you only thought to be a loyal Padawan by lying for your Master. None of us are blind to Qui-Gon's propensity to bend the rules.” Mace sighed, a sudden weariness about his features. “But this time he has gone too far. There was holo footage from the arena, Obi-Wan. The Queen was eager to offer it up when she learned Qui-Gon was not her ally.”

What was left of Obi-Wan's composure finally broke. He knew he must be visibly trembling but he couldn't stop it. His legs felt like they were back in the cuffs. Numb and tingling, completely unable to support his weight. He was surprised he didn't collapse entirely.

They had seen. They had all seen. Not only had he been caught in a lie, grounds enough for demerits or probation, but worse than that, the whole council had seen him in his weakest, moment. A child crying and bleeding, barely dressed in torn silks and chains. They would never allow him to be a Jedi. He had not been serene or calm. Hadn't trusted in the force- hadn't trusted in his Master.

He felt his knees beginning to wobble, and at the back of his mind, he realized that he would fall- his humiliation would be complete, then. His vision blurred as he leaned too far to one side, unable to stop it from happening. 

Abruptly Plo Koon stood.

“I think it's time for a recess,” he swept to the middle of the room, not waiting for Yoda to answer. One large hand steadied Obi-Wan's shoulder, the sleeve of his large robe gently falling across Obi-Wan's back. Disguising the way Master Plo was holding him upright..

Obi-Wan could feel himself trembling under Master Koon’s hand, and couldn't help but lean into him for support. He couldn’t collapse. Not yet.

“I think we've learned everything we need,” Master Windu said, his voice shadowed. Various noises of agreement sounded from around the circle.

Light-headed and dizzy, Obi-Wan almost protested. Sure that the Council had already decided he would be excommunicated from the order. But Plo Koon must have felt him tense, because he pulled him ever so slightly closer. Obi-Wan leaned into his weight gratefully, bending his knees and blinking at the spots invading his vision.

“I will escort  young Obi-Wan back to his quarters.” He bowed for them both, and guided Obi-Wan into stumbling his way out of the council chamber.

The doors swung shut behind them, and the heavy noise of the wood- something about it made Obi-Wan jump, and stumble. Unable to catch himself, his knees gave out. He hit the carpet flat.

Absolutely overwhelmed, he curled up on the ground, on his knees, where he belonged. The tears rushed down his face all at once, and it was only with an enormous effort that Obi-Wan managed to stop himself from opening his mouth and wailing like an infant. Unable to stop crying, he at least tried to stay as quiet as he could, keeping his breathing shallow and silent.

Inside, his thoughts were wild. He was in the middle of the hall- they’d all seen him tied down in the arena- he was crying in front of a Council member- he was too weak to walk- they had all known he was lying the whole time, just waiting for him to slip- the _whole Jedi Council_ had _watched_ him take a well-deserved beating from his Master.

They probably all _knew_ he deserved it, for letting Master Tahl die.

Obi-Wan came back to some sort of awareness with Plo Koon’s large hand around the back of his neck, being scooped up into the Kel Dor’s strong arms like a small child.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Obi-Wan recalled reading his own medical file. It was Master Koon who had found him in infancy, probably carried him to the creche while he was crying just like this.

“It’s alright, young one,” came the Master’s low voice from the vocoder. “I carried you home once. I am glad to do it again.”

Obi-Wan heard a low moan from his own throat, a sick, frightened animal noise. He buried his nose in the folds of Master Koon’s robes, and let himself shake halfway to pieces.

 

* * *

 

 

Obi-Wan wrapped  the blankets on his bed tight around himself again. He pulled desperately at anything that could shield him. Fistfulls of throws and sheets to hide his wounds and cover his body. He’d dragged every blanket in the apartment onto his bed the night before, unable to get warm, and had thought of his cage back on Zygerria- sleeping without something boxing him in felt wrong, exposed. Despite the urge to drag all of the blankets into the closet with him, he’d managed to stay on the bed like a human being, and had just wrapped himself tight in the many layers of bedding.

Though he still wore the thick Jedi Padawan robes that had once felt warm and comforting, they brought him little peace anymore. When Obi-Wan closed his eyes, he could still imagine the yellow leering gazes of the Zygerrian guards, the trainers and their Queen. The way their gaze seemed to strip him down, looking, judging and taking.

At some point Obi-Wan had stopped crying. The panic had faded and the familiar humiliation had begun to set in instead. Obi-Wan knew he wouldn’t have been able to bear it if any of the others Masters besides Plo Koon had witnessed him so distraught and undignified.

But of course they already had.

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, pushing the holotape from his memory.

He was only dimly aware that Master Koon had not left his side. Obi-Wan had expected to be left alone in his misery, but Plo Koon had stayed, taking a seat near the bed. Quiet and patient as Obi-Wan buried himself into the folds of the bedding.

Plo Koon’s presence in the Force was soothing, a warmth that had left an imprint on Obi-Wan since when he first took him in as a child. Obi-Wan wished briefly he could be back in Master Koon’s arms. But he dismissed it quickly, he knew that was a childish want. Even younglings were discouraged from clingy behavior. To easy to form attachments if that habit went unchecked.

Obi-Wan thought Plo Koon might leave when he stayed silent for many more minutes, Obi-Wan’s face still buried into his blankets. Making sure all the tears had been cried and no more would betray him.  

Finally Obi-Wan looked up, the Master seemed content to sit here all night if Obi-Wan let him.

Obi-Wan’s voice was weak, but at least he was no longer crying.

“How long?” He managed to speak with some composure.

Though Obi-Wan could not see Plo Koon’s eyes, he feel his confusion.

“How long till what, child?” Plo Koon leaned a little closer to hear Obi-Wan’s quiet answer.

“How long-” Obi-Wan started again, pausing to take a shaky breath, “How long before I’m dismissed from the Order and have to leave?”

Plo Koon didn’t answer immediately and despairingly Obi-Wan went to bury his head back into his blankets. But stopped when he felt Plo Koon draw even closer to him, studying his face. Reluctantly, Obi-Wan titled his head and offered it for inspection.  

“Why are you saying this, Obi-Wan? No one has asked you to leave.”    

“Because-” Obi-Wan started brokenly, only to find he couldn’t speak the words at all. After a moment he changed his answer. “I lied to to you- to the Council.”

“And you’re hardly the first Jedi to do so. The Order would be few in numbers indeed if we banished every Jedi who told a half truth or lied to protect a friend. No one on the council will hold such a minor transgression against a Padawan learner. You will not be dismissed for that.”

But Plo’s words did little to ease Obi-Wan’s fears.

Finally, the worry that had been building in him broke. His voice was quiet, but clear. The truth so obvious to him, so finite that there didn’t even seem to be a point in dreading it any longer.

“My Master has given me up- hasn’t he? That's why he has not come to see me- why no one will tell me where he is...” Obi-Wan’s head dropped, trying vainly to hide the new tears, “The council has seen the holo- they will agree with him.” A silent sob wracked his shoulder but he managed to continue. “I wasn’t the Jedi I ought to be- I should have...” but whatever he was going to say dissolved into more quiet tears and he covered his face, full of shame and misery.

“Oh, child,” Plo said with surprising emotion, moving fluidly from his seat on to the bed next to Obi-Wan, one clawed hand finding his face and gentling his hands aside to brush away the tears. “You don’t understand- do you?”

Obi-Wan blinked, the tears making his eyes watery and Plo’s face fuzzy. What else could this Master tell him? What else had Obi-Wan done? He was so sick of his own failures.

“Understand what, Master?” He managed, aware of how broken and pathetic the words sounded.

“Obi-Wan,” Plo continued to hold his face, watching his eyes and speaking slowly to make sure Obi-Wan understood, “Your Master has been arrested by the Temple Guards. He is being detained while the council discusses his fate.”

Obi-Wan’s whole body jolted at the words- _Qui-Gon, arrested!_   

“No- no, _no!”_ Obi-Wan stuttered, his hands moving to grab onto Plo Koon’s robes in a pleading gesture. “Master- no! _Please._ It's _my_ fault- I didn’t- I should have-!”

But Obi-Wan couldn’t finish any of his entreaties. Plo held him steady with both hands, making hushing noises through his vocoder.

“It is not your fault, young Obi-Wan. You have been very brave.”

Obi-Wan relaxed a little under Master Koon’s firm but gentle grasp.

He still didn’t understand, didn’t know why his Master had been arrested. But despite Plo Koon’s comforting words- Obi-Wan knew in his heart that it was his fault. And knew that Qui-Gon would think so too.

“ _Why?”_ Obi-Wan asked quietly, with the panic evaporated his body now simply felt weak. Like the weight of Plo Koon’s words could crush him. “Why has my Master been arrested?”

“You really don’t know...” Master Koon’s voice was worried, but he continued. “What your Master did on Zygerria- what he did to _you_ , Obi-Wan, was wrong. He never should have sold you as a slave to the queen- should not have abandoned you. And _never_ should have laid a hand on you.”

“But- the mission!” Obi-Wan cut in, hardly hearing the words Master Koon spoke. “We had to save the colonists!”

“Yes,” Plo Koon said quietly. “Master Jinn spoke at length about the importance of this mission, and why he did what he did. It was troubling to hear him use our philosophy of peace to justify hurting his  student- but more worrying still- is to hear it from you as well, young Obi-Wan.”        

Obi-Wan flinched and retreated, sure that he had just been reprimanded. But Plo Koon seemed to sense this and took his hand, enveloping Obi-Wan’s tightly balled fist.

“But enough of this. Your Master’s transgressions are not yours to bear. And it is for the council to discuss what will become of Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“And what will become of me...” Obi-Wan added tightly.

“I do not know what your destiny holds, Obi-Wan. But I see sleep and healing in your immediate future. Nothing can be solved tonight- you may as well sleep, and focus your energies on recovery.”

Plo stood, extracting himself from the mess of sheets and blankets he had sunk into on Obi-Wan’s bed.

Obi-Wan nodded numbly and mumbled, “Yes, Master,” automatically to Plo Koon’s disappearing form.

“Take heart, young one, you are not alone. The Force is with you- as am I.”

 

* * *

  

Obi-Wan woke from a fitful sleep. During the night he had managed to wedge himself between the wall and his bed. The bed frame digging into his still healing back was uncomfortable, but he didn't want to move. Didn't want to give up the security and the comfort of the small space.

With reluctance, Obi-Wan extracted himself from the cocoon of blankets and wriggled his way out of his shelter.

His robes were damp from sweating in the night, but he didn't want to take them off. Even alone in his room, he didn't want to be so exposed.

Slowly, he stumbled through his small bedroom. He pressed the button that made his windows turn opaque and dark, the room growing dim with the natural light blocked out.

He should have showered, or at least used the new towels in the refresher to clean his still healing wounds.

But he couldn't bring himself to walk past the mirror, to see himself and his wounds reflected in the shiny surfaces of the shower or distorted on the glass.

Instead, he changed in the dark near his bed. Wincing as he fought off the sweat stained robes and stumbled out of wrinkled pants.

He didn't have the energy to  struggle into his tabard or fold and tie his obi in the proper way. Just pulling a clean tunic over his head already felt like a monumental effort.

The council hadn't called on him today, and he didn't plan on leaving his room anyway. He supposed it didn't matter.

With a little more struggling, Obi-Wan was as dressed as he could manage on his own. A pale linen tunic that hung almost to his knees on top of light yet sturdy pants, the kind Obi-Wan wore for training and combat. The fabric clung close to his legs, and it still made some of the worst cuts itch and burn. But at least the damage was covered from sight . The flesh of his legs was still a mess of discoloration, yellow and green where the worst bruising had been.

Dutifully, Obi-Wan began the exercises the healers had assigned him. Gentle movements to stretch his back and use his legs.

He bent at his waist till he could feel the damaged muscles and skin on his back complain.

He was meant to stop when he felt that. but he didn't.

The pain felt grounding in a away mediation did not. It felt right. It felt like what he deserved.

Obi-Wan switched positions when he was afraid the strain might actually reopen a wound. He didn't want to face the healers again for ruining their good work.

He sank to the floor, wincing as his knees took his weight.

He pulled his hands above him, feeling his spine stretch with the movement. Lighting up the wounds again.

The council hadn't punished him. Normally that was a Master's job, to determine what discipline was necessary. But his Master wasn't here...

He let his body fall forwards as he exhaled, his forehead almost resting on the floor, hands stretched out and reaching in front of him. Both his legs and his back awake with pain again.

His trainer would have liked to see him like this...

Obi-Wan jolted upright at the sound of his door chiming. The jerking movement worse for his healing body than any of the stretches. He suppressed a yelp of pain.

“Obi-Wan?” said the voice outside his door, “it's me, Bant- may I come in?”

The initial shock worn off, he tried to respond.

“Yes,” the word came out thick, his throat still tight from sleep. He coughed and tried again. “Yes, please come in.”

The door slid open, sending a stream of outside light through his darkened room. Bant looked around for a moment, her large aquatic eyes adjusting to the darkness, before finally falling on Obi-Wan still kneeling on the floor by his bed.

She smiled and moved towards him, the door shutting behind her and the room returning to dimness.

She didn’t ask why he was sitting alone in the dark or why he wasn’t  fully dressed despite it being well into the morning. Instead she simply knelt near him, calm and uncritical. The sheer warmth of her presence threatened tears in the corner of Obi-Wan’s eyes. If no one else, her opinion of Obi-Wan had not changed. Her kindness did not feel like pity and her worry did not feel like blame. Obi-Wan could not say the same of anyone else at the Temple.

“You look well,” she said conversationally, removing two breakfast pastries she had clearly stolen from the meal hall. She pushed one into Obi-Wan’s hands before he could protest. “But you’d look better if you’d eat.”

Obi-Wan flushed, nearly crushing the pastry as he clasped it nervously  in his hands.

Quickly he changed the topic.

“How have you adjusted as Master Fisto’s apprentice?”

“Very well!” Bant’s eyes lit up, but then added more subdued, “I am truly fortunate to have had the tutelage of two such kind Masters...”

“I’m sorry-” Obi-Wan began, suddenly regretting the choice in topic. Tahl’s death had caused so much pain. And afterwards, when Qui-Gon had grown distant in grief- Obi-Wan worried Bant would as well. But she had remained, and for that, Obi-Wan was grateful.

“Don’t be sorry,” Bant’s eyes glinted in the way Obi-Wan recognized as the closest thing to peering a mon calamari could do. “Obi-Wan,” she said slowly, “we’ve been over this- Tahl’s death is not your fault.”

Bant was right- they had been over this before. And no matter what she said, Obi-Wan had seen the way Qui-Gon had looked at him in the weeks that followed. Bant might not blame him for the death of her Master. But Qui-Gon certainly blamed him for the death of his friend.   

They sat in silence for a moment, Obi-Wan chewing on the edge of his pastry, he wasn’t very hungry, but it would appease Bant.  

Finally Obi-Wan broached the topic he knew he couldn't avoid any longer.

“So what are they saying...?” he asked numbly, focusing on the food in his hands and though he wasn’t looking at her face, Obi-Wan could sense Bant’s hesitation.

“Some,” she started cautiously, “are not surprised. It's not a secret that your Master has a propensity to bend the rules. They say it was bad judgment, nothing more.”

Obi-Wan nodded. That made sense, he had anticipated that.

“Others...” Bant spoke even slower this time. “Do not believe the reports. They don’t want the allegation against Master Jinn to go to deliberation... they worry it _sets a bad precedent._ ”

Obi-Wan tilted his head- not sure what Bant meant.

“A precedent for what?” He asked in genuine bewilderment.

This time Bant looked down and spoke into her muffin.

“They worry it will encourage Padawans to be disloyal- to bring false allegations against their Masters to gain power or prestige- even revenge.”      

“Is that-” Obi-Wan’s voice cracked, so shocked at Bant’s words he could hardly comprehend them,  “is that what they think I’ve done?”

“Some...” Bant nodded slowly. “Since both you and Master Jinn have been silent on the matter- many have been left to speculate...”

“I didn’t ask for this!” Obi-Wan couldn’t help blurting out, as though Bant was someone he needed to convince of his sincerity. He knew it was foolish, but the words were coming too quickly to stop. His voice was loud and wobbly- but he didn’t care. “I only learned last night my Master had been detained! This is the council's doing- not mine! I never asked-”

But he was cut short by Bant’s firm grip on his shoulder.

“I know, Obi-Wan. _I know.”_ She squeezed his shoulder one last time and let go. “But you asked what people are saying... and I’m afraid it's a popular opinion. Even-” But Bant paused, clearly afraid she was about to overstep some invisible line.

What she could possibly say that was worse than what he had already been told Obi-Wan couldn’t imagine.

“Go on,” Obi-Wan said miserably.

“I spoke with Siri this morning- she overheard Master Gallia arguing with some other council members... it seems the council is divided on the situation as well.”

Obi-Wan dropped his head into his hands. He didn’t need to hear the rest.  

“Thank you for being honest with me,” Obi-Wan managed. There was nothing else to say. This was all his fault.   

 

* * *

 

Mace watched Depa get up to go, a certain sadness taking root in his heart, but they were interrupted by the door chime.

“Don’t get up,” she said without looking back, “I’ve got it.”

Mace stood anyways, wondering who was at his door past the evening meal’s bell.

“Hello, Master Plo!” He heard Depa say. “I’m just leaving, I think Master’s been missing me. He’s been inviting me to dinner more and more.”

“Perhaps it’s those exceedingly dangerous missions you continue signing up for, little Knight.” Plo’s voice sounded amused. “Even great Jedi worry for their students’ safety.”  
  
“Former student.” Depa said, but he could hear her smiling. “I’ve got to go, apparently the both of you will be glad to hear that I’ll be staying a while- I’m doing some extra learning courses. Master Nu wants me in the library early.”

“Don’t forget to eat breakfast before you go,” Mace reminded her, almost reflex after living with her for almost fifteen years. “You’ll make yourself sick on your black tea if you drink it on an empty stomach.”

“Yes, Master.” She replied, brushing him off. She waved good-bye and headed down the hall.

Mace leaned against the entrance hallway, looking over at Plo. He carried a bottle in one clawed hand, and walked inside.

“Reacquainting yourself with Depa?” Plo asked.

“I almost have to re-introduce myself, she spends so much time jetting around the Mid Rim.” Mace replied.

There was silence as Plo set the bottle down on his side table.

“But might I presume,” Plo began slowly, “that there was something in that visit, for you, that was not entirely about Depa herself?”

Mace sat down on the sofa, gesturing to Plo to do the same. He thought about it. They’d gotten out of the Council’s debate on the Jinn-Kenobi problem just before evening bell. It had lasted the whole damn day, and Mace had spent so much energy purging his own anger at the situation that it almost made him dizzy. Walking out of the Council room, he’d known Plo could sense it.

“I’ve known Qui-Gon since we were young children,” he said. “We went through our apprenticeships at almost the same time. And yet I had no idea he could treat his student like this. I don’t know how I was his friend for so long without seeing this inside him.”

“Depa knows you well in your own right. I can see in her that she thinks of you as her friend, as well as her teacher,” Plo reminded him. “When I speak to young Kenobi about Jinn, there is no warmth in him. Nor is there true respect. There is only fear, and a twisted worship.”

Mace started to work the cork out of the bottle. “This bothers you.”

“Greatly.”

Contemplating the bottle- it was a very nice brandy- Mace momentarily thought about lifting it to his lips like the reckless young Knight he’d once been, with Qui-Gon at his side. He sighed. Pulling a glass over from the pile of his and Depa’s dinner dishes, he poured himself a decent measure.

“I can’t separate their partnership without consent from one of them.” He said, reminding himself as well as Plo. “Not only would _both_ of them fight me on it, but it would create a political fiasco. Knights and Masters all over the Order would accuse me of separating Padawans from their Masters to suit my own ends.”

“That’s true,” Plo acknowledged, some argument lurking in his tone.

“If I wanted to lose my place as GrandMaster of the Council,” Mace continued, swigging from his drink, “that would be a good place to start. Our entire upper rank would be calling for my resignation.”

“It sounds as though you’re tempted to try it despite this.”

“I’m _trying_ to talk myself _out_ of trying.” Mace set the drink down. “If I tried to separate them by force, it would fail, there would be a scandal, and then Kenobi would have one less powerful ally on the Council. That’s all there is to it. Unless we can talk one of them into _wanting_ to leave, abuse allegations aren’t going to be enough.” He scrubbed a hand over his scalp, almost wishing he still had hair so he could tear it out.

Plo hummed, watching Mace as he tried not to throw back the fancy brandy like it was a shot of make-you-go-blind moonshine.

“Do you remember the MacRinn case?” Plo asked. “It may have been before your time.”

“MacRinn?” Mace asked. He thought. “Was it Lola... No, Loreena MacRinn? I vaguely remember the name. She was older than I was, by quite a bit.”

Plo steepled his long fingers together. “To my knowledge, that was the last time this Council had to hear allegations against a Master from their Padawan.”

Mace grimaced. “That’s fifty years or more. Sounds like a good record.”

Plo’s brow arched, but he continued. “It was one of my first cases. I had little in the way of reputation, but I made my arguments as well as I could.”

“She ended up... leaving, didn’t she?” Mace tried to recall. It had been the talk of the Initiate dorms, but it was so long ago. “Or transferring somewhere? I don’t remember who her Master was, either...”

“Luckily for us, both parties decided- independent of the Council’s deliberating- to transfer to an auxiliary Corps,” Plo said.

“Luckily?” Mace repeated.

Plo hummed again, his tone dark. “I was... unimpressed, shall we say, with the general tone of the Council’s argument.”

Mace’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. Really.”

Plo nodded. “The _consensus view_ ,” he pronounced the phrase crisply, “was that the Padawan had _invited_ her Master’s inappropriate advances. And that it was down to our Council to remove the bad influence from her Padawan class. They were debating whether to send her to a Corps or simply expel her, when she submitted her decision to leave.”

His jaw slack, Mace could only listen to the righteous anger in Plo’s tone. “And her Master?”

“They wanted to put him on leave, to be brought back into the fold after the scandal passed.”

Mace looked away. His instinct as a Jedi was to take the anger rising in him, and force it away from himself. But this- this, he needed to use. This _needed_ to change.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and downed the rest of his drink. “Where did Master Yoda rest on the case? He’s been quiet, and I don’t know... I mean, he half-trained Jinn and Kenobi, both of them. I can see his sympathies struggling between them.”

Plo was silent, considering this. “On the last case, he was... He advised balance. Listening to both parties equally. But it was not a case in which he had personal stake.”

“Personal stake isn’t meant to influence a Jedi,” Mace said, his knuckles tightening on the glass.

“And if it were Depa?” Plo asked, his voice pointed. “The girl you trained, accused of something terrible? Would you be so composed?”

Mace sighed, pouring himself more brandy. He didn’t get drunk often, but tonight seemed like just enough reason for it. “We’re meant to strive for better.” He said, sipping. “Thank you for the brandy, but if I get alcohol poisoning tonight, it’s your fault.”

“I can accept this blame.” Plo said, his voice tinted with humor. “My shoulders are broad.”

They sat in silence for a moment, companionable but worried.

Mace rubbed at the bridge of his nose, an old habit he’d taken up after he’d shaved his head and had no hair to fidget with. “Speaking of Depa.” He said. “I asked her over dinner, what she remembered about Du Crion, before his Fall. She was older than him, but Qui-Gon and I spent enough missions together that they knew each other.”

“Does she know about the Jinn case?” Plo asked.

“No, I don’t think she even knows he’s under guard. She only got back a few days ago and she’s not one for the rumor mill. But... She said a few things that worried me.” Mace turned his glass, watching the low light shine through the golden liquor. “I think... Master Jinn was unkind to him, in the same way he is now to Padawan Kenobi. And if we don’t stop this...” He trailed off.

“Kenobi is a far gentler soul than Du Crion,” Plo reassured him, but there was a waver to his tone.

“The Dark Side isn’t the only method of self-destruction, either.” Mace shot back. He rested his forehead in his free hand. “I just... I don’t want to lose another of our students. However we lose him.”

“I don’t either,” Plo said. He pulled his legs up onto the couch, settling into a relaxed lotus pose. “I wish to see young Kenobi in an environment where he can thrive as a Jedi student. If Jinn is not providing such an environment, he should be removed.”

Mace smiled, knowing his friend was rehearsing his spiel for the rest of the Council. There had been many problems, hundreds of years ago, with Masters accusing one another of mistreatment to switch the training of a powerful student to their own line. The Council’s memory was long, and it would be hard to convince anyone that Mace and Plo did have Kenobi’s best interests at heart, and were not only looking to poach the so-rumored ‘perfect Padawan’. But perhaps the memory of jealous squabbles over students was fading. Perhaps they _could_ get Kenobi removed.

“If we do get him out of there,” Mace said, finishing off his glass and refusing himself another. “I’ll duel you for the right to take him on.”

Plo hummed, sounding amused. “We will see, my friend,” he said, a tremor of laughter in the mechanical sound of the vocoder. “We will see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about the next chapter- Look for that in the New Year. Both Sunset and I have New Years plans and are going to take the extra week to polish the final chapter. So sorry for the extra wait! But we don't want to rush the ending. In the meantime we would love to hear any feedback!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't late. You didn't see anything. *waves hand*
> 
> Generalized warning for gaslighting and emotional, edging on physical, abuse.
> 
> Have fun! *exits while ducking to avoid thrown tomatoes*

The walk from his room in the dormitory to the council chamber felt like the longest of his life.

Though he took moving walkways and turbo lifts when he could, much of the Temple could only be traversed on foot.

So with slow, painful and often time wobbly steps, Obi-Wan made his way through the halls, concourses and thoroughfares of the Temple.  
The walking was painful. The stares were worse.

He missed the anonymity of simply being a Padawan. Masters and knights hardly used to glance his way in the halls as he stepped aside to let them pass.

  
Now people seemed to part for Obi-Wan, never getting too close, changing their route to avoid crossing his.

But Obi-Wan could still hear their hushed whispers as he passed.

By the time he reached the antechamber of the council room he was exhausted. The judging stares of his peers and Masters had been bad, and the Council promised to be so much worse.

If he managed to remain upright through the whole session it would be a small miracle.

The light above the door was green, and Obi-Wan’s was sure he was late. Hastily he pushed them open and moved inside.

But he hardly made it across the threshold when he froze. He was not alone.

With his back to the door and standing in the middle of the council room was his Master, Qui-Gon Jinn.

Emotions swamped Obi-Wan, confused, messy and overwhelming. He couldn’t separate or release them; all at once he felt light headed, weak with relief and then sick with fear. His hand went to his cheek, pressing against a bruise that was not yet healed.

When Obi-Wan saw Mace Windu watching him, he quickly dropped his hand.

“Forgive my lateness,” Obi-Wan said abruptly, embarrassed and aware he had been hovering in the doorway too long.

“Not at all, please join us.” Master Windu gestured to the center of the room next to Qui-Gon, who remained perfectly still.

Obi-Wan thought that if anyone beside a Council member had asked, he wouldn’t have been able to do it. But with their eyes on him, he could only obey. He was sure his legs visibly faltered as he moved to Qui-Gon's side, head down, feet shoulder-width apart, two paces behind.

Qui-Gon didn’t even blink.

“I won’t waste this Council’s time with repeating the facts,” Master Mundi started, “I think we all know why we are here.”

It was unusual for Ki-Adi-Mundi to start council proceedings, usually that job fell to Master Windu or Master Yoda. But as Obi-Wan took a quick glance between the faces of the council, he could see how divided they were. While Mace Windu and Plo Koon mirrored each other’s body language (Master Gallia seemed to lean into their energy as well), Obi-Wan could also see the pointed glances being shared between Masters Rancisis and Piell, both of whom occasionally tried to catch Yoda’s sleepy gaze.

The rest Obi-Wan could not observe without turning, but now he could sense the turmoil and disagreement in the Force.

At least for now, Master Mundi seemed to be neutral, his choice in words careful and calculated.

“I hope,” Qui-Gon spoke at last, making Obi-Wan jump. He had forgotten how loud Qui-Gon’s voice carried in the council chamber. “That the purpose of this meeting is to return my Padawan to me.”

Something surged in Obi-Wan. _My Padawan_. With those words, Obi-Wan found could push down the feelings of anxiety and worry- they didn’t matter anymore. His Master still wanted him, that was all the mattered. At least his greatest fear had not come to pass.

But the council ignored Qui-Gon's inflammatory remark.

“It is an undisputed fact,” Master Mundi gave a cold glance around the Council room, which suggested to Obi-Wan that whatever he was about to say was far from undisputed, “that during the course of this mission, there were many poor judgments made. Some frankly unacceptable for a Jedi team of your caliber. Do you agree?”

  
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan responded on reflex, though Qui-Gon remained stonily silent.

“The severity of these poor judgments,” Master Mundi said slowly, “is what we must still uncover.”

“Whatever my perceived failings,” Qui-Gon said cooly, “the mission was an inarguable success. That would suggest that whatever these ‘poor judgments’ were, their severity was negligible.”

“A success for the Republic, a success for freedom, perhaps. But a success for you- for your Padawan- uncertain that is.” Yoda answered darkly.

“Jedi do not seek personal success,” Qui-Gon countered.

“Seek success they may not- yet fail they may still.”

But before Yoda and Qui-Gon could continue to debate philosophy, Master Windu cut in.

“Master Jinn- let me be precise about these ‘perceived failings’. You were purposely vague filling out your mission materials- I suspect you knew full well this council would not approve your strategy if you had told us. You then proceeded to ignore this council’s directive to be passive in the Zygerria situation- instead you sought out conflict and became involved in Zygerria’s politics. Furthermore- you grossly misused your power and pushed an under-trained Jedi operative into a high-risk field mission- a mission which you were not even _authorized_ to assign.”

Master Windu took a deep breath. “You endangered yourself, your Padawan and the mission by taking matters into your own hands and initiating a deep undercover operation without Council or Senate approval.” He paused, looking between the other Council members to see if any would disagree. “And that is only what I can prove. I believe your other transgressions to be far worse.”

Qui-Gon only nodded serenely. Obi-Wan had to admit- this was not the worst list of grievances the council had ever brought against his Master.

“Reckless and arrogant these choices were, not befitting of a Jedi Master,” Yoda said solemnly. “Agreed the council has that time to reflect you need.”

“Probation,” Master Windu cut Yoda off, “You are under ongoing probation till the council sees fit. And furthermore,” Mace seemed to steel himself here, “though not unanimous, a majority vote agreed you shall be stripped of your rank until further notice.”

Obi-Wan felt jolt go through him- this was unheard of!

“That is not within your power,” Qui-Gon said dismissively, “You may revoke the privileges my title brings- but I have earned my Mastery. That you cannot touch.”

There was a moment of silence in the room, and Obi-Wan felt sure the council was not done, only preparing its next move.

Finally, Yoda spoke.

“A privilege, teaching is.”

Obi-Wan barely comprehended Yoda’s meaning. It was, of course, a well known adage of the Jedi that being allowed to mentor a student was great gift. Many claimed true Jedi knowledge did not begin until one became a Master to a Padawan.

But that was not what Yoda meant.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Qui-Gon’s voice was ice now and Obi-Wan could feel the coldness in the Force around him. “I will not allow you to take him- he belongs with me.”

Obi-Wan was not blind to the several raised eyebrows that his Master’s vehement statement caused. But in that moment, he didn’t care. He had been so sure Qui-Gon had abandoned him- so sure he was no longer wanted- that Qui-Gon’s possessive words almost made everything feel alright! He could forget Zygerria, forget the slave pits and the torture. So long as he knew he belonged- belonged to his Master. It was all he wanted- all he had _ever_ wanted...

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

“No one has said that we will try,” Mundi broke in, “But we are, however, concerned about your relationship. The galaxy puts their trust in the Jedi- and the Jedi must trust one another. Broken trust between Jedi can put entire planets in jeopardy. So we must know- was your trust broken?”

This question, Obi-Wan felt, was directed to him, though Qui-Gon answered anyway.

“I have forgiven Obi-Wan his past mistakes, this mission will be no different. If he failed, than so have I. I can only train him better.” He balled his fists in controlled resolution.

“Yes, of course,” Master Windu said dryly, then pointedly turned to Obi-Wan. “And you, Padawan Kenobi- I know this mission was difficult-”

But he was interrupted by Evan Piell’s loud cough, a none-to-subtle sign even Obi-Wan recognized as a warning to tread carefully.

Master Mundi continued instead.

“Please, speak freely Padawan Kenobi.”

But Obi-Wan found he had no idea what to say. The joy of the moment before had vanished, he could feel the eyes of every council member on him.

  
He had just regained his Master's favor- if he spoke wrong now...

_I must serve my Master better._

“There was no breach of trust, my Masters,” He said solemnly. “I still freely put my life in his hands.”

There were several undisguised glances between Council members, some seemed concerned, others eerily triumphant.

Qui-Gon still hadn’t looked at him, but he thought he could feel his Master relax slightly, his fists loosening.

Of all the council, Mace Windu seemed particularly unhappy.

“So you stand by your earlier statement? Master Jinn and yourself were in agreement about splitting up?”

“Yes, Master. I became injured because I was arrogant and overestimated my abilities. But that was my own failing.” Obi-Wan ducked his head, swallowing down his shame.

A few more glances, a particularly long one between Mace and Yoda.

“A final question for you both,” Yoda said clearly- the word _final_ seemed emphasised for Mace’s benefit. “Talking we can see on the holotape- arguing perhaps. What was said, the Council would like to know.

Obi-Wan faltered and Qui-Gon quickly filled the gap.

“My Padawan explained that-”

“From Kenobi, please,” Master Windu said harshly, and Qui-Gon had the good sense to be silent. Finally, Qui-Gon looked at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure what he saw behind his Master’s eyes- was it regret? Concern? Whatever it was, Obi-Wan knew he could not fail his Master now- not again.

“I explained,” Obi-Wan picked up hesitantly, returning his gaze to the council, “that I had called in backup. But Master wanted to remain undercover.”

_(Master! We can’t, the mission is done! I’ve already-_

_Quiet!)_

“I admit... we did argue... I was scared of what I was being asked to do. I realize now, I was being selfish. I should have simply done as my Master ordered.”

_(I’m sorry, Padawan.)_

“But when Qui-Gon asked again, I- I agreed.”

_(Master- please. Don’t do this!)_

There was a heavy silence in the Council room

“As I’ve said before,” Qui-Gon began, ignoring the heaviness in the air, “I had just started to unravel a plot I suspect went all the way to the Senate. I had hoped to stay undercover longer, but with the occupation unexpectedly upon us- I thought perhaps it would be an opportunity to investigate the Queen further. Before Mace happened upon us, I was looking for proof of business dealings with Senators- which unfortunately we may now never find...”

“Ah yes,” Master Windu said bitterly, “clearly our rescue mission to save your Padawan from dire circumstances and free countless other slaves, interrupted _your_ detective work.”

Yoda tapped his stick to stop Qui-Gon and Mace beginning another argument.

“Concerns I still have, disturbing were your choices on this mission. Reflect on your actions you must. Strive to do to better, all Jedi must.”

Qui-Gon gave a slight inclination of his head. “Always, Master.”

“But no breach of trust do I see- poor judgment, very poor indeed- but no reason to continue your separation. Our verdict already you have heard, your time of reflection you may begin. Over this session is-” But before Yoda could finish, Master Windu spoke urgently above him and Obi-Wan jumped when the Grand Master used his given name.

“Obi-Wan- You do not have to do this, _you do not have to lie_.”

“Mace!” Even Piell nearly shouted.

“Let him finish!” Adi Gallia cut over them both, her regal tone bringing back some semblance of order. Mace gave her a curt nod of thanks.

“There is no shame in the truth, Obi-Wan- you do not have to remain loyal to a man who hurt you.” Mace’s voice was cooler, but his face betrayed his emotions. “We can protect you if you leave- you will not have to be afraid-”

“This is outrageous!” Piell stood from his seat now, “I won’t hear this baseless slander against one of our own!”

“Baseless?” This time it was Plo Koon’s voice that broke the chaos. “May I remind you I found this boy bleeding out on the floor of a slave hovel- from wounds we all watched Jinn inflict on him. That’s hardly-”

“Yes- yes, we all know how _fond_ you have always been of the boy, Master Koon.” Rancisis waved his hand in dismissal. “Convenient that it was you who found him this way.”

And with that more arguing broke out.

Obi-Wan could only stand, mortified by what was unfolding around him. The council openly fighting, all the subtle glances and glares suddenly abandoned. And all because of him. He could feel himself trembling.

“ _I’m sorry_...” Obi-Wan tried to say, but it was only a hoarse whisper. No one could hear him over their own arguments. “Please- I’m sorry _I’m sorry_ -”

His voice broke, but no one was even looking at him. “ _Please, stop_...!”

Finally, a voice cut through the chaos.

“We are leaving now.”

Qui-Gon’s words brought a hush on the council room, and Obi-Wan felt Qui-Gon’s hand on his shoulder. His grip tight, almost painful, as though the Council might try to physically pull Obi-Wan out of his grasp.

No one spoke, Yoda merely nodded their dismissal. The council’s arguments stayed till Master and Padawan were at least out of earshot.

Suddenly, Obi-Wan found his body moving with Qui-Gon’s, seemingly out of his control.

He realized, Qui-Gon’s grip on his shoulder was not the only thing guiding him as they left the room. Their Force connection, which had been so silent, came suddenly alive again, and flooded him with new feelings.

If Qui-Gon hadn’t been keeping him upright, Obi-Wan was sure he would have collapsed. His mind suddenly hazy, his thoughts felt very distant, replaced instead by the waves of his Master’s energy. Obi-Wan felt warm and dizzy, almost like he was in a trance.

Out loud Qui-Gon said softly, “I will never let you go, Padawan.”

To any onlooker it was a small endearment, but in the Force connection between them, Obi-Wan felt the true gravity of the words.

In fact, the words whispered in the Force sounded a lot more like, _you belong to me_.

 _Yes- yes, Master_... Obi-Wan’s contented, sleepy thoughts sent back. _Yes, I belong to you... I belong..._

But if there was anything more said, Obi-Wan couldn’t remember it. In what had only felt like seconds, they had crossed the whole temple. Obi-Wan suddenly aware that he was in the common space of their shared apartment. Qui-Gon’s hand finally releasing his shoulder, and like a rush of cold air, reality seemed to come back into focus. The enveloping security of the Force bond fading away, leaving him cold and alone.

“Master...?” Obi-Wan said tentatively, his fractured mind trying to piece together the last hour.The council meeting was a foggy blur now, he could remember it- but without detail. What had they said? He remembered other people shouting... He had been so upset- and then...

“You’re tired, Padawan. It's been a long day- rest.”

Obi-Wan nodded. He was tired. Yes, that was all. He needed rest. He’d remember in the morning...

He took a few stumbling steps on his own, making it past his door and almost halfway to his bed. But his exhausted legs finally gave out. He crumpled like a rag doll, legs folding under him, too tired to stay upright.

The carpet of his room felt oddly warm and welcoming. Half curled on the ground from his fall, it was easy to sink the rest of the way down. His cheek finding the surprisingly soft floor.

Everything felt so distant. His bed an impossible length of floor away. It had taken everything for him to stay standing. And now, he felt like he had nothing. He felt so empty, so entirely drained, he didn’t know that he would ever feel whole again.

Nothing mattered. He would just sleep here.

Obi-Wan was so tired that when he felt large arms engulf him and lift him into the air, he was sure he was dreaming. He blinked, confused, caught between wake and sleep.

Qui-Gon’s embrace felt so surreal, the warmth and tenderness with which he held Obi-Wan to his chest so foreign. Dimly, Obi-Wan thought he ought to protest. Insist his master needn't carry him to bed like a child. But speaking felt unnatural, his mouth moved to make a sound and nothing happened.

He didn't even know what he would say.

Instead, Obi Wan buried his face into the folds of Qui-Gon’s robes. And for just that moment, everything felt alright. He knew he had made the right choice to stay with his Master.

Qui-Gon placed him gently on his bed, and Obi-Wan ached from the loss of contact. But soon there were pillows and sheets to cling to and finally, Obi-Wan fell well and truly asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Obi-Wan woke with a sudden jolt, the movement sending pain splintering along his back. He bit down a yelp and tried to steady his breathing.

After a second of focused calm, he sat up again. This time he noticed the splitting headache. He touched his forehead gingerly, it felt like someone had taken an ice pick to his skull.

He took a moment to sort that pain, before also noticing the curious sick twinge in the pit of his stomach. The greasy feeling left behind from someone shoving foreign thoughts into your skull...

But Obi-Wan shoved that thought down. A headache and upset stomach were hardly exclusive symptoms to Jedi mind manipulation.

Obi-Wan glanced about his darkened room, the chrono on the wall informing him that it was still the middle of the night. Sliding his legs gingerly off the bed, Obi-Wan stumbled out of his room, intent to find some water to settle his stomach and ease the pounding behind his eyes.

But only a step out of his room and Obi-Wan froze.

Though the lights in the common area were off and the room was dim save for the emergency lights, Obi-Wan could see a hulking figure slumped against the kitchen island.

It took a full moment for Obi-Wan to process that this was Qui-Gon. Half asleep on the counter, a near empty bottle in one hand- and another empty bottle on its side nearby.

Obi-Wan was already balanced on the balls of his feet, but he lightened his step even further, trying to retreat silently back to his room.

An ambiguous dread filled him. He desperately hoped his master had not seen him. But before he could even close the door, his master looked up.

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon sounded surprisingly lucid for two bottles deep and only half awake.

“Yes, Master...” Obi-Wan said in a small voice, and it was with a sudden chill he realised- he was afraid.

His Master motioned him over, but Obi-Wan hesitated, a few poor excuses forming on his lips.

“Come here,” Qui-Gon insisted and Obi-Wan felt his body move out of habit. Drawing closer to stand in the dark a few feet away from his master.

Qui-Gon shakily raised himself off the table, he looked a bit disheveled, but it did nothing to diminish his master’s imposing presence.

Obi-Wan felt caught in his Master’s gaze, somehow both distant and piercing. It made him keenly aware of his own appearance, the robes he had fallen asleep in now open and askew, hair more spiked than usual and the faint sticky sensation he knew meant blood had seeped through his bandages and was staining his clothing. He wanted to fidget, and couldn't help as he crossed his arms, hiding himself and pulling his falling robes back onto his body.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt...” Obi-Wan managed when Qui-Gon remained silent.

“You don’t...” Qui-Gon seemed to sway on the tall stool by the counter, blinking heavily. “You don’t realize. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Master?” Obi-Wan asked, sick and paralyzed. He couldn’t leave, but something about this was intensely wrong- he’d seen wine in his hand at political dinners, whiskey in the cabinet above the stove, but he’d _never_ seen Qui-Gon drunk before.

“Come _here_ ,” Qui-Gon insisted, beckoning with his hand out.

Obi-Wan shuffled forward, absurdly frightened. He was home, safe from the horrors of Zygerria, but somehow the darkened apartment he’d lived in for years was no less threatening, his Master wrong and strange. He stopped only inches away from his Master.

Qui-Gon leaned in and set his large hands on Obi-Wan’s thin shoulders, and he flinched. The skin of his shoulders was sore and split, he could feel the slow-healing skin pulling.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Padawan mine,” Qui-Gon said, his breath hot next to Obi-Wan’s face. “I never meant- _oh_.”

He peered over Obi-Wan’s shoulders, bringing one hand up to his face. “You’re bleeding,” he said.

“M-my bandages need changing, Master,” Obi-Wan stuttered. “I can- I can take care of it-”

Qui-Gon squinted blearily, frowning. “No, no,” he murmured. “I’ll do it. I can fix this.”

With his other hand heavy on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, Qui-Gon levered himself out of the tall chair, planting his weight on the carpet with only a minor stumble. Obi-Wan let out a small noise as some of Qui-Gon’s weight came down on his shoulder, fingers tightening against his wounds.

Starting off towards the couch, they steered each other in a wavering line until they reached the living room, Obi-Wan weaving on his weakened legs, Qui-Gon staggering and unbalanced from the drink.

Obi-Wan grabbed the back of the couch, grateful to have something to hold onto, and leaned his weight onto it for a moment, letting his legs tremble and relax.  
Still stumbling, Qui-Gon walked around the couch to the front, latching onto Obi-Wan by the wrist in a bruising grip, making him lose his grip and nearly fall to his knees.

Obi-Wan sucked in his breath as Qui-Gon manhandled him to the front of the sofa. Obi-Wan didn’t dare fight it, Qui-Gon was clearly too drunk to realise the excessive strength he was using to maneuver him.

Obi-Wan let Qui-Gon push him to his knees, facing the seat of the sofa. With Qui-Gon’s hand on the back of his neck guiding him, Obi-Wan leaned the top half of his body up and onto the cushions, exposing his back to his Master who sank down behind him.

Obi-Wan couldn’t help shivering as Qui-Gon shoved his hands into his robes, yanking the fabric around his shoulders to remove the blood and sweat stiff robes from his back. Parts of it stuck and tore as Qui-Gon’s indelicate fingers pulled the fabric from his flesh. Obi-Wan buried his head into the seat cushion, biting hard on his lip to distract from the pain.

“You’re hurt...” Qui-Gon said somewhere above him, drunk and distant. Obi-Wan winced as Qui-Gon dragged a hand down his back. Fingers catching on the old bandages and wounds.

“The kit,” Obi-Wan managed shakily, “Master, the med kit is...” But he trailed off, Qui-Gon seemed to have located the medical supplies on the coffee table next to him.

For a few precious moments, Qui-Gon wasn’t touching him. Obi-Wan could hear the rustling sounds as Qui-Gon sorted through the med packs contents. Taking out bandages, tape and solutions.

Then he felt Qui-Gon hands return to his back. Clumsy and drunk, peeling away old gauze and wrappings, tearing at the sensitive new skin beneath.

  
Obi-Wan stifled a cry as Qui-Gon pulled bandages away from the deepest wound, the large jagged cut barely held together with synth skin and staples.

As the last bloodied rag fell to the floor around them, Obi-Wan felt a new twisting in his gut. A strange sort of fear as he felt his master’s eyes on him and examining the skin of his back. Calloused fingers exploring the new scarred terrain. The damage he had caused.

“Master...” Obi-Wan’s voice was muffled, but he couldn’t hide the panic. He wanted to thrash, to push Qui-Gon away... but he felt cold and paralyzed. As trapped as he had been on the auction block, but the thing holding him in place now was more powerful than any chain.

“I never meant to hurt you, Padawan...” Qui-Gon’s words were still slurred with drink, his fingers rubbing clumsy circles on the half-healed skin of Obi-Wan’s back. “I didn’t want to...”

“ _Master_ -” Obi-Wan tried to interject, but Qui-Gon didn’t hear him.

“You have to believe that- you have to... Say you do.” Qui-Gon’s hand stopped moving and instead became a vise, clamped on Obi-Wan’s shoulder causing it to burn with pain.

“Yes- _yes_ , Master- I know...” Obi-Wan gasped, “Master, please- you’re hurting me...!”

Qui-Gon’s hand immediately let go and he pulled away, a sudden lucidity in his voice. “Obi-Wan. I-I’m sorry.”

Obi-Wan took a few shaky breaths, his body still shivering. But he couldn’t move, only collapse against the sofa further. His mind retreated- this would end eventually.

There was a sudden, cool comfort against his back, as Qui-Gon applied the salve and antibiotics, and Obi-Wan relaxed. He could bear this. He could do it. It even felt good, his Master’s hands soothing the antibiotics into his damaged skin. It felt like cool water on a burn wound, numbing the overheated pain.

“I’m sorry.” Qui-Gon said again, finding the new bandages he was meant to be applying.

They were silent for awhile. Qui-Gon clumsily taping down new gauze across Obi-Wan’s damaged back. Obi-Wan stayed silent through it, willing Qui-Gon to finish quickly. The rough fabric of the gauze deadened the sweet relief of the antibiotic cream.

“Obi-Wan...” Qui-Gon finally spoke again, putting the final bandage in place, “don’t make me hurt you again.”

Obi-Wan’s stomach twisted, his gut telling him to run, but there was nowhere to go- he was stuck between his Master and the sofa.

“I-I won’t, Master,” Obi-Wan managed to stutter, “This- doesn’t have to happen again. I can be good. I can be better. We’ll be all right.”

Qui-Gon pressed down on the last bandage, sealing it in place. Obi-Wan gasped breathlessly under the pressure, the pain of it lancing through his chest. When the pressure let up and Obi-Wan could breathe again, he felt tears running down his face. He buried his head into the sofa, furious with himself. Crying so often, at his age, was inexcusable.

He felt Qui-Gon’s hand in his hair, moving aimlessly, and his heart relaxed. Wasn’t this was all he’d ever wanted? Every time he’d injured himself in the training salles, every time he woke up alone in the healer’s wing after a mission. This was everything he’d ever longed to get from Qui-Gon.

“I’m sorry,” Qui-Gon murmured, sounding on the edge of tears himself, “Please do not doubt my love for you, my Padawan... I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Yes, Master...” Obi-Wan said weakly. The words spun in his brain. _Love_ was forbidden to a Jedi. He’d never realized how badly he had ached, his whole life, to hear the word for himself. His chest felt sore and full with it. _Love. He loves me_.

Drunkenly, Qui-Gon disentangled himself from Obi-Wan, standing up on unsteady feet.

Obi-Wan stayed perfectly still as he listened to Qui-Gon shuffle to his own bedroom and the _woosh_ of the mechanical door finally separated them.

For a few more moments, Obi-Wan simply lay there, half slumped on the couch.

Then he began to shake, the tears finally running free down his face and onto the sofa. He didn’t have the strength to move. He could barely think, repeating a few words over and over in his brain.

_It’s okay. It’s okay. He loves me. It’s okay._

 

* * *

 

 

Obi-Wan flitted between wake and sleep the rest of the night. Wounds that had been healing now sore and angry from Qui-Gon’s clumsy bandaging.

In his dreams, Qui-Gon’s hands were still on him. Sometimes holding him, warm and gentle, until his back would start to hurt again and Qui-Gon’s phantom grip suddenly became painful. In the background were blurry memories of Zygerria, of the slave pits and the arena. The dream would bleed into nightmare as indistinct shadows of Council members and Jedi watching as well. Laughing and shouting and arguing. And Qui-Gon still holding him- still hurting him.

Finally Obi-Wan woke, thrashing against nothing. Breath coming hard and fast and his back burning.

But he was alone. The door to Qui-Gon’s room shut tight, with the privacy light on.

Obi-Wan blinked wearily, taking in his surroundings. The living room was only illuminated by the dim morning light that snuck in under the blinds. And the only sound was the soft temple bells.

But reality still felt thin. Obi-Wan found his thoughts were hazy from the pain and lack of sleep.

He moved his body through motions he barely registered. Sliding off the sofa, stumbling and crawling to his room where he attempted to wash and dress as best he could. The pain of his wounds felt distant, but his body still wouldn’t cooperate. His arms and legs occasionally failing as he forced himself through the basic routine.

The world seemed to solidify once he was dressed and the boy in the mirror looked like a Jedi Padawan again. His robes were neat with crisp folds, he was standing straight and his hair was mostly under control.

Obi-Wan tried to ignore the dullness in the eyes that stared back at him. The shadows of bruises on his face and the hollowness of his cheeks. He reminded himself to get some skin-tone concealer, from one of the other Padawans that dabbled in contraband. At the very least it could hide the dark circles under his eyes, perhaps even disguise the healing bruise on his cheekbone.

With one hand he reached to gently touch his ear. It was still sore, and he could feel the lump of scar tissue where the tag had been. But it would fade.

Eventually all the marks would fade.

With as much resolve as he could muster, Obi-Wan walked back to the common area, taking in their small kitchen and living room, he began to itemize his tasks for the day.

With steady hands and steps, Obi-Wan began to clean the table. Throwing out the bottles, washing Qui-Gon’s forgotten glass and wiping away the sticky residue where the alcohol had spilled. After just a few moments, there was no more evidence of last night's events. His drunk and incoherent master only a memory.

The sofa was next, where traces of Obi-Wan’s blood had stained the upholstery. He discovered the red stains were harder to erase than the alcohol- but after a few minutes of scrubbing, the blood vanished as well. And the events of last night were relegated to his memories once and for all.

With the cleaning supplies still out, Obi-Wan busied himself with the rest of his tasks. The whole apartment had a layer of dust on it from their absence. And the menial task helped distract him from his thoughts.

Besides, the sooner things returned to normal, the better.

Eventually, his work was interrupted by a louder bell chiming, signalling the start of the day for most in the Temple.

Obi-Wan moved through his familiar morning ritual. Hands reaching for Qui-Gon’s cup and teapot, left just where Obi-Wan had cleaned and placed them before this mission had started weeks before. Then setting the water to boil, measuring out the tea, watching the steam rise...

How many hundreds of mornings had he done this?

Like clockwork, Obi-Wan placed the warm cup on the kitchen table as Qui-Gon’s door opened.

“Good morning, Master.” The words came out remarkably steady, almost friendly.

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon said, hardly glancing his way.

There was no trace of the man from last night, the sorrow and the guilt that had hung so heavy on his Master’s shoulders had vanished. Nor was there the warmth and safety of the man who had held and carried him to bed while whispering soft endearments in his ear.

It was just Qui-Gon, quiet and stoic as normal.

Maybe that was for the best.

Qui-Gon sat, calm and composed at the kitchen island, on the same stool he had been seated the previous night. But he was so entirely different, a cup of tea in one hand and his data pad in the other, preoccupied scanning news headlines and reading Temple memos.

Obi-Wan openly stared for a moment longer before busying himself again.

Time passed quickly in amiable silence. Obi-Wan finished his chores and other Padawan duties about the apartment, while Qui-Gon continued intently reading and writing on his datapad.

Obi-Wan gave a final glance around, deciding all felt in order. Even better, it felt normal.

Checking the wall chrono, Obi-Wan saw it was still mid-morning. He was ahead of schedule then.

Retrieving his training bag from his room, he made for the door to their apartment. He would train till the midday meal and then return to cook his Master’s lunch as he always did.

But before Obi-Wan could make it to the apartment door, Qui-Gon stopped him.

“Where are you headed?”

Obi-Wan froze and faced his Master, confused and a little wary.

“Training, Master- unless you need me here?”

“In a way,” Qui-Gon said quietly, standing from his stool and blocking Obi-Wan’s path to the door. “I fear that I have been... _inattentive_ to your training. It’s my own fault- I gave you more freedom than you were ready for.” Qui-Gon sighed and moved to the lock console on the door.

From where Obi-Wan stood, he could clearly see the adjustments Qui-Gon was making while he kept speaking.

“I think it would be best if I supervised all your training again- including your studies. I’ve already spoken to your other Masters, they’re sympathetic to your situation and have agreed to let you complete your course work remotely.” Qui-Gon paused and then amended, “At least till you are healed enough to attend classes again.”

Obi-Wan nodded numbly. “Very considerate of them.”

Qui-Gon sighed and finished typing in his override code on the door lock. “I can tell you’re displeased, my young Padawan. If you must know, the Council suggested this. They need this little charade to prove our bond.” He pressed a final button and the console chimed. The door was not locked, exactly. But it would record every time it was opened, and by whom.

Obi-Wan would not be able to leave the apartment- not without Qui-Gon knowing about it. That thought sent an unbidden rush of panic through Obi-Wan. He pushed it down as hard as he could, willing back his calm. This changed nothing- he could still do this. Everything would still be alright.

“I’ll be honored to have your attention,” Obi-Wan said neutrally, dipping his head. “When would you like to start my training?”

Qui-Gon shook his head, almost bemused, and said, “We will be starting now. But you’re not fit to fight yet- besides, it is your connection to the Force that needs attention.” Qui-Gon gestured to the meditation space in their living room. “When I think you have improved, maybe then we will return to battle forms.”

Obi-Wan nodded stiffly. “As you wish, my Master.” He wanted to argue, but held his tongue. He had promised he’d do better.

He set his training bag aside, and moved to the corner of apartment near the window. Light streamed through the blinds and across the two meditation mats.

Obi-Wan took his place on his and noticed that Qui-Gon was not joining him. Instead his Master returned to his datapad.

Tentatively Obi-Wan asked, “How long, Master?”

Qui-Gon hardly glanced up from his work. “Somewhere to be?” From anyone else it would have been a joke, but nothing in his Master’s voice was humorous these days.

“N-no, Master- I only meant-”

“Then till I say so, Padawan.”

Obi-Wan flinched at the rebuke, ducking his head and curling his fists tightly on top of his knees.

“Yes, Master,” he mumbled to the floor, not even sure his Master heard him- or if he even cared. The soft taps of his fingers on his datapad resumed.

Obi-Wan sat as still as possible, forcing his eyes shut and his mind to empty. The peace and calm of meditation seemed a long way off. The pains he had been ignoring all morning were growing on his mind, and the weight on his knees was lighting up bruises and cuts that had just started to heal.

But worse still was the sinking feeling of dread coiling itself through his body.

With his eyes shut, he might still be on Zygerria.

He had thought once he returned to the Temple, to his normal life, he would shake the lingering feelings of the slaver planet. That his robes, and the halls and the other Jedi would fill the hole that had been carved inside his chest.

But now, more than ever, Obi-Wan felt he was merely a thing being kept.

He knew now that he had never truly left Zygerria, that some part of the slave had stayed with him deep inside. Or maybe, Obi-Wan thought, it had always been there.

 

* * *

 

 

Plo Koon entered the training salle, wondering why Mace had pinged him. It wasn’t a special occasion- a few times a year, they would be called to watch the Padawan tournaments as Council members, but this was only a normal training day.

Joining Mace, who was standing near the back of the room, he saw the reason. Obi-Wan Kenobi was in a long shirt- unusual for a training salle, where most students went in with as little clothing as possible to not get soaked in sweat- and tight training pants, holding his lightsaber aloft. His legs, still healing from their dislocation, were shaking.

“Again,” said Qui-Gon Jinn, leaning against the opposite wall.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, his saber moving steadily in a kata a bit advanced for his age. Plo glanced down, and saw his knees were still trembling even as his stance shifted to compensate his weight.

Under the rebreather, Plo’s mandibles clicked in agitation. The child was injured, could Jinn not see? His expression was not one of patience and learning in a dedicated Padawan, but the tight calm of a Jedi in pain.

He hummed to Mace, a low agreeing noise that he knew his friend would take for acknowledgement. So this was why he’d called.

Mace just nodded, his lips pursed.

They watched together as Kenobi did the kata to the best of his ability, the footwork muddled because of his injury, but the arm stances all near to perfect. It was rather astounding- most Padawans in Kenobi’s age group would not have attempted something of this level yet, and most definitely would not have memorized it so thoroughly. And yet even with his injured back, his posture was lovely, picturesque even.

When he finished, he relaxed almost immediately, shifting his legs to a more even-weighted stance that left him more easily balanced. Still, his knees shook.

Along the wall with the few other observers, Plo relaxed. He’d held himself in readiness the whole time, preparing himself to catch little Obi-Wan if he fell. But at least it was over.

“Wait,” Mace said grimly, reading Plo’s mood.

On the opposite side of the training room, Master Jinn stalked towards his apprentice. “Padawan,” he said coolly, “did I give permission to relax your stance?”

Obi-Wan was still looking at the ground, his face tight but his gaze demure. “No, Master,” he said.

“No, I didn’t,” Master Jinn continued. He glanced up for a bare second to see Mace and Plo, and his face hardened. “And your footwork was atrocious. Did you simply forget the lower half of the kata, or decide it wasn’t worth your time?”

Kenobi flinched.

“Quite possibly,” Plo interjected, “It was because of his recent injury, that he left off on the complex footwork required by the Panther-Moth kata. It might not be wise to disturb his healing process quite so soon, Master Jinn.”

Both Master and Padawan turned to him. Jinn’s mouth was set in an unfriendly line, and Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. The Padawan shook his head minutely in Plo’s direction.

“Thank you for your input, Master Koon,” Qui-Gon said tightly, “but you are not his Master. I am. And my Padawan clearly needs grounding, and meditation on his arrogance.”

Master Jinn turned away, stalking towards the locker rooms. “Get cleaned up and dressed, Padawan, and then back to our quarters.”

“Yes, Master,” Kenobi murmured, shifting his feet gingerly.

The door shut with an audible noise, and there was no one left in the training room but Mace, Plo, and Padawan Kenobi.

He turned, still stretching his legs. “Masters, please. Don’t do that.” His face was still downturned.

“Do what, Padawan Kenobi?” Mace asked. His voice was very carefully neutral.

Kenobi looked up, his expression pained. “Please don’t interfere with my training. I’m sorry, I know you only have my welfare in mind. But it will only make things worse.”

Mace turned, exchanging a glance with Plo. They both knew what the other was thinking- _worse, how_?

“Padawan-” Plo started, but Obi-Wan took a deep breath, visibly gathered his courage, and interrupted.

“I know you think I- I should be removed. But my Master is good for me, whether you believe it or not. I only have to strive to be better. And striving to better myself, means not- not _courting_ other Masters as though I think his training is too harsh.”

Plo turned to look at his friend, but Mace’s face was turned away. He wondered what Mace thought of this desperate young man, pleading with them _not_ to help him.

Padawan Kenobi breathed in deeply and set his shoulders, his legs starting to quiver. “I can only try to be the best Jedi I am capable of being, and I can only do it where I am. It- it's an honor to be his apprentice. He’s like this because of how deeply he cares about my progress.”

Mace and Plo exchanged another small disbelieving glance, this one almost guilty. Of course if they interfered, the child would be the one Jinn took his irritation out on. Of _course._

Padawan Kenobi, his breathing rapid from his training and his outburst, ducked his head. “I’m sorry for interrupting, Masters. But please.”

“And we as well.” Plo admitted, nodding to the Padawan’s display of perfect respect. He could feel Mace’s slight tension next to him, but it needed to be said. “I ought to apologize. I thought only of your health, and meant to create no discord between yourself and your Master.”

“Thank you for your concern, Master Koon,” Kenobi said softly, “but my health is of no consequence compared to my training.”

Turning on his heel, he staggered towards the locker rooms before either Mace or Plo could say anything else.

Plo heard Mace suck in a deep breath, hold it, and then let it out slowly. He could sense righteous anger in his friend, deep sadness at the boy’s words.

His own feelings were... tumultuous. Plo had long worked to dispel himself of the notion that children he brought into the Temple were his personal responsibility, but it had arisen again somewhere between the Zygerrian slave quarters, and when he carried Obi-Wan through the halls and put him to bed. To see the same child tell them that his health, his safety, simply _did not matter_ was... distressing.

Mace took another deep breath, and sighed. “Did you notice,” he said quietly enough not to echo in the large training room, “that the boy had tone-powder on?”

“What?” Plo asked, confused.

“Skin cover.” Mace explained. “To even skin tone. It’s used as makeup, to cover blemishes, or anything else that needs disguised. When I spoke with Depa, she said Du Crion used to wear it. She put it down to vanity.”

Plo’s mandibles clicked as he put the pieces together. “I doubt this was simple pride.”

“So do I,” Mace said grimly, “because Kenobi had it on his wrist.”

“We have been asked, quite politely, not to interfere,” Plo stated. “By both parties. And the Council.”

Mace turned to him, gesturing with both his hands out. He looked deeply frustrated. “I cannot _stand here_ and _do nothing_ while a student and child gets _physically hurt by a Jedi under my command_! I am not _able_ to do nothing!”

He placed both hands on top of his head, a gesture Plo recognized from when Mace had been a young knight. He’d used to dig his hands into his thick hair. It was a childish sort of habit that he’d decided to rid himself of by shaving his head, but the gesture remained when he was under great stress.

“But I have to,” Mace continued. “There is nothing I can do- right now. But...” Slowly, he relaxed, lowering his arms back to his sides. Striding quickly with his long legs, he crossed to the rack of training sabers, taking one.

“But?” Plo prompted. He caught the training-saber hilt that Mace threw him, and understood. Mace’s mind had always worked best in motion.

Mace scrubbed a hand over his face as they got into position on the mat. “I don’t know. Something. I’m going to do _something_ , at least.”

They each sunk into the ‘guard’ positions of their chosen forms, barely watching one another. The use of the training sabers meant they could be more careless, sink into conversation and muscle memory instead of keeping their attention on avoiding accidental dismemberment.

“Such as?” Plo asked with an experimental lunge.

Mace blocked easily, chewing on the inside of his lip as his mind worked over his options and his feet spun him away. “Burst in on Qui-Gon after he’s been in a bad mood, maybe catch him doing something I can prove.” Mace came up close, his feet crowding Plo’s space, and they dodged and danced at close range for a moment. “Invite myself to dinners, ply him with alcohol, see if I can talk him into giving Obi-Wan over.”

The training blades flashed and hummed as they both went on the offense, an initial barrage to work their irritation out through the combat.

“Invite Kenobi to dinners with you or I, perhaps.” Plo put in as he pulled back, taking the defensive as he thought. “He may benefit from time out of their shared quarters.”

Mace snorted, his brow furrowed. “The less time they spend alone together, the better. I’ll see if I can get Adi to send her Padawan over, as well. Keep Jinn from cornering him as much as we can.”

“Is that better?” Plo asked. He blocked a flurry of blows from Mace, stepping back with each one. “Perhaps, if their time alone is limited, Jinn’s frustration will mount and the injuries will become worse. He might be placated in some way that would keep Kenobi safer.”

“I don’t _want_ to placate him,” Mace growled, “I don’t _want_ to play to his damn ego. I don’t want to dance around Jinn’s mood and comfort just so he won’t _hurt his student_ , because hurting his student _should not be an option_ for a-” he grunted as one of Plo’s blows connected- “ _Jedi Master_. How the hell he got his rank is starting to _baffle_ me.”

“Rarely do we see things from the perspective of a student.” Plo pointed out. “We see only a Jedi’s accomplishments, not their private life. Perhaps interviews with a candidate’s peers or subordinates would be more revealing, than having them stand before the Council. Everyone presents their best self to authority, yet those beneath them may have a different story to tell.” He solidified his footwork, preparing to turn the fight so he was on offense instead of defense.

Mace grunted in acknowledgement as Plo turned on his heel and attacked with a sudden barrage. “That’s-” he panted as he spoke, “out of my purview for now. I’ll bring up changing the process when the next- _fuck_ -” his sleeve sizzled as the training blade caught him in the arm, “candidate for Mastery comes along. Good idea, though.”

“This could be quite an improvement.” Plo said conversationally, his offense still driving Mace back to the edge of the training mats. “Since this debacle began, I have wondered if there are more children in our Order like Kenobi, suffering silently and unable to bring their concerns to us on fear of expulsion.”

His saber caught Mace in the knee, who kicked out reflexively- and turned the tide, blocking a blow and coming up from underneath to drive their battle back to the center of the room.

It was silent for a time, only the harsh buzz of the training sabers echoing against the walls. Plo could see that his friend was lost in thought, his eyes glazed as his body blocked and parried.

The mid-afternoon bell sounded, and with it, the door opened. Distantly, Plo heard the voice of a young Knight with a Padawan class, telling them to be quiet and not disturb the Masters. Plo felt a brief flash of guilt- he and Mace were taking up their training space and time, when Masters had their own space for this. It vanished as Mace pressed him close, coming up into his body space like a rising wave, and, out of options, Plo locked their sabers together.

“Plo,” Mace said as they grappled close, his voice soft and dark, “I can’t let this be the state of the Jedi Order. Not now. Not while I have the power that I do.”

“There is no action that can be taken,” Plo countered, leaning his weight slowly into the place where the sabers interlocked, “unless we have a solid case.” He shoved, using the locked sabers to loosen Mace’s grip and take his training saber. On reflex, he swept his disarmed opponent away from him with the Force, regretting it a half-moment later.

Mace hit the floor with an _oomph_ , rolling reflexively in the way they all practiced as Initiates, and Plo was glad of it. At least it meant he hadn’t broken anything.

A loud cry of whoops and applause came up from the Padawans, pressed against the opposite wall. Mace rolled onto his back and held his hand up, two fingers raised- Basic Sign for _I surrender_. The class laughed, seeming slightly over-awed at their Grand Master in such a state.

“My apologies,” Plo said, slightly out of breath. “Muscle memory.”

“Why do you think we were using training sabers.” Mace asked, sitting himself upright and panting. “I wasn’t asking for a _clean_ fight. Just one where I didn’t lose any limbs.”

“Mission accomplished, then.” Plo said, tossing the two training sabers back towards their rack. He walked over, settling in a lotus pose, and concentrated on his breathing.

The air filtration system hissed, cleansing the smell of sweat and burned cloth from the air. The students were stretching on the floor, well away from Mace and Plo, some of them folding their outer robes and setting them on the benches. There was an air of genial chatter, the young Besalisk knight keeping gentle order.

Mace sighed, letting his breath rush out in a whispered curse in Bocce. “You really think there are more?” He asked, quietly enough not to be heard by the students. “Like Kenobi? Just carrying on in lonely silence, letting their Masters hurt them because they don’t think they have other options...”

Plo sat silent for a moment, listening to the hum of the electricity, the noise of the air filter. The energy from the children was steady, strange and creative and willful in the way only children could be, but normal.

Yet what did that mean? Normal? Perhaps it had always been this way. The undercurrent of boisterousness, of temper- was that pain, badly hidden?

“If we had not been on that mission,” he asked in return, “would Kenobi ever have willingly revealed his mistreatment?”

Mace’s jaw tightened. As one, they looked at the gaggle of Padawans, all of them seemingly safe and content. But who knew what lay beneath the surface?

Plo stood. “Come,” he said, “perhaps we should away before the little ones must start their lesson.”

Mace rose behind him, rubbing his back. “Did you really have to _throw_ me?” He groused, loud enough for the students to hear. There was a clatter of giggles among the class.

“Quiet,” said the young Besalisk instructor. “Masters.” He bowed. “Thank you for your demonstration.”

Plo bowed back, Mace just behind him.

“You’re quite welcome, Knight Krell.” Mace said. He winked at the Padawan class. “I hope watching me get knocked into a wall was good entertainment for you lot.”

There was some minor chaos at that, the students laughing and shouting as Knight Krell tried to restore order, and Mace and Plo used it for cover to get out the door.

The halls were quiet and settled, the mid-day sunlight streaming through the windows. It was days like this when Plo let his heart open to the beauty of the Temple, shining stone and open windows and high ceilings. Even without considering the Force, it was a glorious place to live, surrounded by so much beauty.

Mace slowed next to a window, watching the traffic of Coruscant go by. His usually set and determined face looked wounded, almost young.

“How am I going to fix this?” He murmured.

Plo put a large hand on his friend’s shoulder, feeling the sunlight, the streams of energy in and outside the Temple. All of the complexities of the thousands of people inside, creating and meditating and yes, hurting. The enormity of it made his chest ache.

“Not alone, my friend,” was all he could say. “You will not do it alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the _official_ end to the story! There is one more chapter, but it will be a distant epilogue. Sorry about all the, uh, pain.
> 
> The epilogue should be out next week. I say "should". It's up in the air, but just know that the longer it takes to come out, the longer it's going to be! So more wait, means more words.
> 
> It will be bittersweet at best, but we will, in fact, get Obi-Wan to somewhere he can be safe and happy. Mark my words.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, and sorry for the wait! One thing we figured out trying to nail this chapter down- endings are _hard_
> 
> Preemptive apology- there is still some Sad Bad stuff in this chapter. You all know the drill, Qui-Gon is a cockbasket. But we hold steady, keep up hope and beat on to better days.
> 
> As always. Thank you for reading, and have fun.

**Five Years Later**

**37BBY**

 

Obi-Wan stumbled half asleep down the boarding ramp. He was exhausted, three months in space with little more than a cot and a privacy curtain to call his own had worn him thin.

There had been no where in the cramped ship to escape to and he could hardly walk the length of the narrow vessel without colliding with his master. Unsurprisingly, Qui-Gon’s already stern mood was not improved by their surroundings.

But Obi-Wan had learned not to complain about missions. It was unbecoming for a Jedi- and besides, after his misadventure on Zygerria, it was hard to be anything but grateful for a mission where he was allowed to walk and speak.

Years had passed since that mission on the slaver planet, and it seemed that most had all but forgotten the scandal. He and his master were returned to the mission roster, Qui-Gon had been fully reinstated, and nothing but a footnote in his records was left to suggest what had happened.

Obi-Wan had to admit, he preferred it that way. Eventually the rumours had stopped and by and large the Temple forgot. Obi-Wan gratefully faded back into anonymity. Nothing but the scars on his legs and back remained, and those were easily hidden.

Even Mace and Plo checked in on him less frequently. With the political situation in the Core growing more tumultuous with every passing day, Council members hardly had time to spare worrying about a lowly padawan. And while Obi-Wan sometimes missed their company and their wisdom, he knew Qui-Gon was pleased that they had ceased their meddling.

Obi-Wan’s friends were now too more like memories. Quinlan had been knighted the year prior, and Obi-Wan barely saw Bant anymore- her studies to become a healer had taken her far and wide across the galaxy in the last years of her apprenticeship. And not long after Zygerria, he and Siri had fallen out- their already rocky friendship not surviving the years after Obi-Wan’s emotional return.  

Obi-Wan took the blame for that- he had pushed her away. But it had been for the best, he could sense her feelings for him would grow in a way that could end badly. And it was the least he could do to spare her more pain.

Sometimes Obi-Wan missed how things had used to be. The early days of his apprenticeship when the galaxy had seemed wonderful and inviting. When he had looked forward to meeting new people and creatures.  

But Zygerria had changed all that, and Obi-Wan could hardly remember what it felt like to wake up and feel alive.

He was so tired now.

After Zygerria, his Master had begun his training in earnest. The years were little more than a blur of training and missions. Long days and sleepless nights that blurred the weeks into months and the months into years.

Until finally, he was standing here. Body sore and shaking from the uncomfortable cramped cot and half-rations of the past several months. His bones still chilled from his time in deep space. Obi-Wan felt an ache in his chest as he longed to return to the familiar comfort of his own room.

Of course his bedroom was only fractionally larger or more comfortable. But at least there he would be able to shut the door and close the blinds for a few hours before attending to his Master again. For just a little while, he could exist without Qui-Gon’s critical eyes on him, breathe without his Master there to judge or comment or reprimand.

So lost in those thoughts, Obi-Wan practically tripped when he reached the landing bay floor, his boots dragging from his weariness. And though he had worn these same boots for a few years now, they suddenly felt foreign on his feet. Like some sort of shackles he couldn't shake.

An old panic blossomed in his chest as he felt his weight tip precariously. It was only a minor misstep, but the small stumble sent his stomach lurching.

With some forced grace, Obi-Wan recovered his balance, and thankfully, it seemed his Master had hardly noticed.

Obi-Wan had feared for many months his legs would never recover after Zygerria. Even after the healers proclaimed the bones and tissue well mended, he could not dispel the weakness that seemed to live in his bones. The way he felt he might collapse at a strong word or sharp gaze. Several growth spurts later, much heavier with plenty of lean muscle on his frame, only made the feeling of being perpetually on the verge of falling _worse_.

He almost missed being small and slight, his childhood size leading other beings to believe he was delicate. Easily broken... It made for a good ruse, but there was something deep in his mind that told him it was true.

It was more than his legs that had been broken in the slave pits, there was something in his soul that had never quiet mended either.  

But he had buried those thoughts, which had become easier when their suspension was lifted. Missions were a welcome distraction from the depressing grey walls of his room and the dull beige of the training halls.

Qui-Gon didn’t seem haunted by the memories as Obi-Wan was. In fact, his Master rarely even mentioned Zygerria at all. Though in a way, Obi-Wan felt he didn’t have to.

Just because the words remained unspoken, didn’t mean Obi-Wan couldn’t hear them. They were always there, in his master’s warning glares and frustrated sighs. _Don’t make me hurt you again._   

And he hadn’t- not really. Not like Zygerria.

Obi-Wan pushed away those thoughts. Dismissed the phantom pain of old bruises and burns from training saber duels. No, never again like Zygerria- he supposed he should be grateful.

Qui-Gon was speaking now and it took all of Obi-Wan’s focus to even comprehend the words through the fuzz of his exhaustion.

Do the post flight checks. Start running the mission report. Be presentable for the mission debriefing in two standard hours.

Obi-Wan fought to keep his shoulders from slumping further. It would be nearly a full rotation before Obi-Wan would be allowed to collapse onto his bed. He wondered bleakly if one more missing stim shot from the ship’s medical closet would be noticed.

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan intoned automatically when Qui-Gon paused between orders.  

Obi-Wan stopped to key in the code to raise the ship’s docking ramp, while Qui-Gon moved on through the hangar bay.

However, the Master didn’t get very far, some commotion near the dock exit was blocking his path.

Obi-Wan looked around, everything had all gone a bit quiet- but he supposed that could be the exhaustion finally taking hold. In fact, it took him a full minute to realize that the hush fallen over the busy dock was not a figment of his fatigue. Curiosity piqued, Obi-Wan leaned around to see between the lines of docked ships. He couldn't see much, but he thought he could pick out the gold and white glint of temple guards.

Unsure, Obi-Wan cast an inquisitive glance to Qui-Gon, trying to take some cue from his Master’s expression. He didn’t seem pleased.

“Master...?” He tried tentatively, but Qui-Gon ignored him.

Heavy boots were heading his way, and Obi-Wan instinctively pushed himself closer to the ship, trying his best to stay out of the way of whatever was going on.

A moment later, four Temple guards finally came into view. They were always an impressive sight. Gilded masks and yellow sabers making them look ethereal compared to the travel weary Jedi who stood nearby watching their procession.

Obi-Wan wondered absently where they were headed. It was rare the guards left the temple, rarer still by such pedestrian means as the well worn ships docked here. But as they grew closer, Obi-Wan only became more confused. They were heading in his direction, but Obi-Wan’s weary mind could not piece together why.    

Something in the Force tried to get his attention, a warning breaking through his mental haze. All of a sudden Obi-Wan knew that behind the featureless masks, four pairs of eyes had found him. And it made his stomach drop. He looked for his Master, but Qui-Gon was nowhere to be seen- though Obi-Wan sensed he remained somewhere nearby.

Out of sheer force of habit, Obi-Wan peeled himself off the side of the transport he was cowered against. Stepping forwards to meet the guards with as much serene Jedi confidence as he could muster.

The guards were intimidating, but knowing that every droid, dock worker and Jedi had stopped what they were doing to stare at him was worse.

“Padawan Kenobi,” one guard said, his voice hollow from behind the mask.

“To what do I owe the honor?” The words felt clunky coming out of his mouth, Obi-Wan knew he couldn’t sound more baffled.

But instead of responding, the guards paireded off and each moved to one side, revealing a fifth person in their group.

Obi-Wan realized immediately why he had not heard the fifth set of steps, for the person standing in front of him was an impossibly small and slight Iridonian Zabrak, only old enough to be an Initiate.

Their face beamed up at Obi-Wan, hardly able to hide the delighted smile that threatened to ruin the serious mood. Quickly, they bowed, disguising any nervous laughter that might escape.

“Greetings, Padawan Kenobi. I come bearing news!”

For the first time since the guards had arrived, Obi-Wan allowed himself to breathe. He remembered this from his own time as an Initiate. Running errands, aiding in ceremonies, holding books and lighting incense. Obi-Wan had often been one of those selected for these jobs- though he had never delivered a message with a Temple Guard escort before. He couldn’t imagine what news had been sent to him that deserved such pomp and cistumsatnce.

“Thank you, Initiate,” Obi-Wan finally came to and responded, “what is the- erm, message?”

It seemed as though the youngling could barely contain their own excitement, clearly this was the moment they had practiced for. Their voice was loud and clear, ringing like one of the Temple bells.

“The Trials call you, Obi-Wan Kenobi. The Trials call, and you must answer.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan could only stare, absolutely dumbstruck at the young Zabrak in front of him. The child was practically shining in the Force with glee, delighted to be the one to deliver what should have been some of the most joyous news any Padawan could receive- _The Call to Trial._ He had been endorsed as a candidate for knighthood!

His hand went to his mouth, trying vainly to shield some of the emotions that were overflowing.

He could hardly believe it, _Qui-Gon had actually recommended him!_

For so long knighthood had seemed an impossible dream, an unattainable goal. Obi-Wan had been an apprentice for nearly a decade and Qui-Gon had spared him little praise. It was the worry of many sleepless nights that Qui-Gon would simply never be pleased with him. That ten years as his Padawan would pass and Obi-Wan would still end up back on the same freighter to Bandomeer. Not worthy to be a knight, not worthy to be a Jedi.

On reflex, Obi-Wan spun his head looking for his Master, but he was still alone.

A sharp feeling stabbed in his stomach... where _was_ Qui-Gon?

But the soft sounds of a restless youngling brought Obi-Wan back to the moment.

“Thank you, Initiate-” he paused suddenly aware he did not know the young Zabrak’s name.

“Zenier,” the Initiate supplied happily.

Obi-Wan smiled down to them, his own worries momentarily pushed aside.

“Initiate _Zenier,”_ he amended. “Thank you for this news.”

Zenier beamed up at him, returning the smile tenfold, and something in Obi-Wan saddened.

Had he looked like this? So small, so eager, so _willing._

Obi-Wan had barely been thirteen the first time he was captured and tortured. At the time, he had worn the scars with a no small amount of pride. They had made him feel like a Jedi. Besides, thirteen had seemed plenty old enough to fight and die for a good cause.

But now as he looked down at Zenier, he didn’t want to imagine this child facing the same horrors he had. The mining platform on Bandomeer, the brainwashing on Phindar... the many tortures of Zygerria.

Obi-Wan’s face must have given something away, because Zenier’s expression quirked in confusion. But not wanting to distress the child, Obi-Wan forced his smile back.

“I will answer the Call,” Obi-Wan said loudly, aware again that other Jedi were watching the exchange. “I will face the Trials.”

There were a few mutters of approval from those nearby, and a few... less so. But Obi-Wan pushed that away. If Master Qui-Gon thought he was ready- that was all that mattered.

In front of him, the Initiate bowed low and offered him an official looking datapad with the Council’s insignia on it. Obi-Wan returned the bow and bent to accept the device. He was sure it contained the details for the times and locations of the ceremonies and other mundane forms to fill out.

While the Jedi were enamoured with ceremony- they were also enamoured with datawork.    

“ _Good luck!_ ” Zenier whispered, going off script for a moment, before returning to their best attempt at a stoicism and saying louder, “May the Force be with you, Padawan Kenobi,” before bowing a final time.

And with that the Temple Guards formed back up around Zenier, and the procession exited the hangar with just as much fanfare as they had when they arrived.

Slowly, life resumed as normal. Jedi drifted along their way and workers returned to the ships they were servicing.

It was only Obi-Wan who was still caught in the moment. He nearly collapsed against the ship, giddy and terrified and _happy._ Well and truly happy for the first time he could remember in years. _Knighthood!_

All his exhaustion was gone, if they had asked him to take the Trials _right now,_ he would have agreed. The adrenaline pumping through him was sure to keep him awake for weeks. He couldn’t imagine sleeping, not until he had passed the Trials. Not until he handed Qui-Gon his braid and took the mantle of Jedi Knight- _then_ he could rest.

Regaining some amount of composure, he hailed a passing droid. He used his override codes to reassign it to his ship. Normally he would have stayed and done the post-flight checks himself- but this seemed a good excuse as he would ever have to cut a few corners. The droid could handle it, and Qui-Gon would never know.

Obi-Wan wanted to return to his quarters as soon as possible, and hopefully find Qui-Gon there as well. He wanted to thank his Master for the recommendation, and to proudly show him the official datapad he clutched in his hands.

He all but sprinted through the Temple, half expecting the Masters he passed to chide him like a youngling for running in the halls.

But he reached his quarters without incident, and just as his comm alarm started to chime, reminding him that the debrief would start soon, though nothing could be further from his mind.

If he had been more present, he may have noticed the strange tremor in the Force before he all but fell through his apartment door. But once inside, it smacked him like a wall of cold air. While the room itself was open and well lit, Obi-Wan suddenly felt an oppressive sense of darkness surround him. And as the automatic door behind him closed, he had the sinking sensation of being trapped.

Still stunned from the sudden change in the Force, Obi-Wan teered just over the threshold, afraid to go in any further.

He saw Qui-Gon sitting at the kitchen island, entirely indifferent to his abrupt entrance. One hand held a datapad scrolling with information, the other an earthenware teacup. And while his demeanor suggested nothing more than his typical stoic reserve, the Force around him was nearly crackling with energy.

Obi-Wan clutched the datapad in his hand tighter and protectively moved it behind his back as he edged his way into the apartment, slowly putting himself in his Master’s line of sight.

“Master...?” Obi-Wan said, steadily as he could, his mind racing. Perhaps something had happened?

“Is the mission report done?” Qui-Gon didn’t even look up from his own work, absently drinking from his cup and then returning it to the counter.  

Obi-Wan blanched. He had entirely forgotten, so distracted by the Temple Guards and their message.

“N-no, Master. I was delayed-” he began to explain but trailed off. His Master never took kindly to excuses. “I’ll begin immediately.”

Qui-Gon still had yet to even spare him a glance and barely acknowledged his words, giving only a low irritated hum to let Obi-Wan know that he had heard him and was displeased.

Obi-Wan started to hasten towards his room door, but paused, looking back at his Master again.

Sensing his hesitation, Qui-Gon huffed. “Something else, Padawan?”

“Yes, Master, I-” But Obi-Wan faltered, this conversation had hardly gone the way he had imagined it. “ _Thank you._ I- I’m honored by your recommendation. I’ll-”

But Qui-Gon cut him off, finally giving Obi-Wan his full attention.

“The Trials are dangerous. Many have died trying to take them before they were ready,” Qui-Gon said flatly, “Which you are not. I did not approve that _display_ \- and you won’t be taking the Trials. When we go to the debrief, you will politely decline the Council’s offer.” With finality, Qui-Gon set his datapad down on the table.

Clearly he meant that to be the end of the discussion, but Obi-Wan, too shocked to stop, blundered on.   

“I- I don’t understand,” Obi-Wan said, totally unmoored. Nothing felt real, he wondered if this was a dream. “If not you-”

Qui-Gon stood abruptly, slamming his hand on the counter in the process. The sound made Obi-Wan jump.

“I thought the Council had _ceased_ its meddling in my affairs. But it seems not. I can only assume this is what you have been angling for since the beginning- why you so often sought the attention of other Masters on the council.” Qui-Gon took a step towards him and Obi-Wan felt his shoulder blades meet the wall behind him. “And it is insubordination like _that_ ,” Qui-Gon began to thunder, “which tells me you do not- and _will not-_ deserve Knighthood!”

Qui-Gon paused, leaving room for his apprentice to object or fight back.

But Obi-Wan only remained pressed against the wall, head down and eyes trained on the ground near his Master’s feet. He knew how to survive this.

The moment hung, and finally Qui-Gon resumed, voice quieter, almost apologetic- but not quite.

“We will discuss the ramifications of this later. Go finish your report.”

Qui-Gon turned, dismissing him with a casual flick of the wrist. But Obi-Wan remained.

He thought he ought to cry. In the past hour had be given the greatest gift he could imagine, only to have it taken away. For the briefest moment, he had felt hope- and now he wasn’t sure he would ever feel anything else again. He was so numb, painfully numb. There were no tears, or anger. Just nothing, forever.

It dawned on him for the first time how _pointless_ it all was. His worst nighttime fears had come to pass- Qui-Gon never intended to let him go, never intended to see him Knighted. And with that knowledge, the glimmer of hope that had kept him going had finally been snuffed out.

It was an odd relief.

There was nothing left for Qui-Gon to take away from him. It simply _didn't matter._

And though his body was trembling, the words came out clear.

“I’ve already accepted the Call, Master, with four Temple Guards as my witnesses. I _will_ face the Trials.”   

Obi-Wan tried steeled himself for the storm he had just invited. His mind conjured flashes of explosions from Melida/Daan, the first and last time he had ever dared to defy his Master- until now.

Qui-Gon spun to face him, a controlled fury in his eyes that Obi-Wan had only ever seen directed towards their fiercest foes. A rush of Force energy came with his movement, knocking Obi-Wan further into the wall at his back. Obi-Wan heard the clatter of objects being lifted with the Force only moments before they crashed into the wall around him. One of the objects was Qui-Gon’s large earthenware cup, which shattered only inches from his head, sending scalding tea across his face and shoulder, but he hardly felt it.  

He was too focused on trying to breathe, though he wasn’t sure if it was the Force hold or the sheer terror of the moment that crushed his lungs.

Obi-Wan didn’t regret his words, but he still feared the pain he knew his Master was capable of inflicting.  

“ _You will do no such thing,”_ Qui-Gon growled, advancing closer. “This arrogance is unacceptable. The Trials will kill the unprepared, and wanting it does not mean you deserve it. Your punishment is already grave, Obi-Wan, do not make it _worse_.”

Every fiber of Obi-Wan’s being told him to submit, to bow his head and beg his Master’s forgiveness. He knew that to do anything else would be his end.

But if he was never to be a Knight anyway- it didn’t matter. Qui-Gon could claim his life here and it would be a better fate than living in perpetual servitude.           

So he titled his chin up, the only act of defiance he could muster with his body practically crushed against the wall.

“You will _renounce_ your candidacy,” Qui-Gon said through gritted teeth, almost on top of Obi-Wan now. “I want you to _say it._ ”

Obi-Wan could almost be glad for the Force practically suspending him. Without it, he was sure he would have collapsed. But instead he met his Master’s eyes and kept stonily quiet.

Force knew he’d borne worse in silence.       

When he simply refused to respond, Qui-Gon surged and closed the last inches that separated them. Obi-Wan braced, not sure what hurt was about to be inflicted, but confident he could survive it. Or perhaps he wouldn’t- but by then it wouldn’t matter.

But suddenly the Force around him dissipated, and Obi-Wan began to fall from where he had been pinned to the wall. However his descent was abruptly stopped by Qui-Gon’s hand wrapping around the base of his Padawan braid and yanking him back up.

Obi-Wan bit down the pained sound in his throat. Being grabbed by the thin braid of hair was sending stars across his vision, and he had to scramble to keep upright. Qui-Gon was still berating him, but he could hardly hear it.

Above him, Qui-Gon slammed the controls for Obi-Wan’s bedroom door and it rushed open with a metallic hiss.

Obi-Wan tried to stumble forwards on his knees as Qui-Gon all but dragged him by the braid through the doorway, only letting him go when he was no more than a crumpled pile on the bedroom floor.

This time, Obi-Wan kept his head down. He wasn’t submitting, but he didn’t want to invite another attack.       

He could hear his Master breathing heavily, reining in his anger.   

“You will stay here. You will _meditate_ on your attitude. And I will deal with you when I return.”

From the floor, Obi-Wan watched his Master turn on his heel and seal the doors behind him.

He could still hear Qui-Gon in the apartment beyond, footsteps loud and angry. Drawers and cabinets slamming as Qui-Gon prepared to leave for the debrief. But Obi-Wan didn’t dare move till he was sure his Master had left. He remained perfectly still, legs and arms tucked under him, his forehead practically against the floor.  

It was many long minutes before Qui-Gon finished his work and collected his things and longer still before Obi-Wan was sure his Master had left and was not returning.

Slowly, he uncurled his body, raising himself part way from the floor.

He didn’t want to try standing, didn’t want feel the weakness in his legs. His whole body shook, and it was a small miracle he didn’t simply collapse back down to the ground. With one groping hand, he reached for the drawer in his nightstand, fumbling for the out-of-date datapad he kept hidden there. Shutting the drawer-quietly, quietly- he shuffled the two padds together, the one from the Council on top.

It was with no small amount of disbelief that Obi-Wan realized he was still alive. Qui-Gon had all but admitted that he had no intention of raising him to Knighthood, but that didn’t scare him anymore. Maybe it was only momentary; maybe once the shock wore off, he would be terrified, maybe he would lose his composure entirely in the worst of ways.

He looked down at the Council’s datapad, the one he had managed not to lose through the whole terrifying encounter. _Your presence is requested in the Tranquility Spire tomorrow eve. The ritual of the Commencement of the Trials begins at sundown, and therefore, we recommend arriving twenty minutes before the sun sets. Coruscant calendars say sundown on the day in question will be at 18:24..._

Still reluctant to test his legs, Obi-Wan crawled across his floor for the first time since his recovery from Zygerria.

His bed seemed more like an obstacle than a retreat. Instead, Obi-Wan pulled himself the the closet at the back of his room.

It had remained almost entirely empty through the years, and had served him better as a hiding place than a storage unit.  

He clambered into its familiar comfort, the walls he could press his scarred back against and know he was safe, the door that blocked out all distressing sights and sounds.

Pulling his knees up, he buried his head against them until stars burst across his vision.

He would rest, just for a moment.

The other datapad, his own, held his only lifeline- a way to speak to Bant Eerin and Quinlan Vos. Quin was a Knight himself now, and though it shamed Obi-Wan to ask for help- he couldn’t think of anyone else to turn to.  With help _perhaps_ he could just... _avoid_ Qui-Gon. Somehow sidle his way past his Master’s fury at the idea of his Knighting... Escape this room and still take the Trials.

It was either that, or wait on his knees for his Master to return and complete the punishment he had started.   

Obi-Wan punched in the familiar number, evening out his breath as the comm rang. After a few moments, the other end crackled to life.

“ _Uh, hello_?” A small, staticy, and shirtless Quinlan Vos appeared on the miniature holo of his padd.

“Quin, it’s me.” It dawned on Obi-Wan that in the dark of the closet his own holocam was likely struggling to pick out his form. “It’s Obi-Wan,” he added.

“ _Oh, hey- hold on_.” There was some shuffling and Quin went in and out of frame.

Obi-Wan was used to Quinlan keeping odd hours and seeing as it was before noon, he wasn’t surprised that his friend was still in his bed. Or perhaps someones else’s bed? As the camera was jostled Obi-Wan thought he caught a glimpse of another figure. But quickly Quin returned to fill the holo, walking the cam somewhere more private.

“ _What’s up_?” Quin asked when he seemed resituated elsewhere.

“I- I have a favor to request,” Obi-Wan stumbled around the words. The last time he had spoken to Quinlan they had left on... odd terms.

“ _Yeah, shoot_ ,” Quin said, distracted, like he was looking for something else.

Obi-Wan chewed on his lip, suddenly worried that involving Quin might go badly. Worried that if Qui-Gon discovered him he could be putting his friend in danger as well.

“ _Come on, Obi-Wan_ ,” Quin said, annoyed with his silence, “ _for once in your life could you spit it out_.”

Obi-Wan flushed a little and finally pressed on.

“I need somewhere to stay tonight- I was hoping...”

“ _Yeah_ ?” Quin prompted, and Obi-Wan could hear his amusement, “ _You were hoping what_?”

“I was hoping,” Obi-Wan said, wishing he was annoyed but finding he was only flustered, “I could stay in your rooms tonight?”

Quin let out a low whistle.

“ _Well that's a different tune, you turned me down last time I asked. So_ ,” he quirked a blurry wink on the holo, “ _what's in it for me_?”

Obi-Wan considered ending the transmission there and then, Quinlan’s ribbing finally getting under his skin. And on another day he might’ve, but- his whole future depended on this... He swallowed, hard. He was willing to do this. For his freedom.

“I- I’m sure we could-”

But Obi-Wan didn't get any further when Quin cut in, laughing.

“ _Force, Obi-Wan, relax. I’m screwing with you. Of course you can stay over. The bed or the couch, we’ll see how the night goes_.”

Obi-Wan practically collapsed with relief. He knew his voice would betray him, but he tried anyway.

“Thank you, Quinlan. This really means a lot...”

“ _Yeah_ ,” was all Quin said, moving in and out of frame again, “ _come over whenever. I’ll be there as soon as I uh_ -” he paused to bend down and pick something up, “ _find the rest of my clothes_.”

Obi-Wan covered his mouth to stifle any noise. He could almost laugh- but was afraid he might sob.  

“Thanks, Quin,” he managed again and quickly palmed off the padd.

With the holoprojector off, Obi-Wan was plunged back in to darkness. He curled his legs in tighter and hugged them with his arms.

He didn’t know how long he had, debriefs could be unpredictable, but he didn’t want to press his luck. The sooner he escaped, the better.

With pure force of will, Obi-Wan pulled himself up, relieved that the shaking in his legs had subsided. He was still exhausted, and his new injuries pained him- the tea burns had begun to itch and sting. But Obi-Wan set the pain aside, certain that he could raid Quin’s medical cabinet later.

Tentatively, Obi-Wan massaged the spot behind his ear where the braid connected, which hurt almost worse than the burns.

But he couldn’t be distracted by that now.

Opening the closet doors, Obi-Wan hastened out and about his small room. He replaced his personal datapad in its secret spot in his bedside drawer and stole a few of his hidden ration bars from under his bed. He was sure Quin would try to feed him, but the Kiffar knight tended to have _unusual_ idea about what constituted healthy meals.

Obi-Wan knew he wouldn’t be allowed to bring anything but his lightsaber into his Trials, so he didn’t see the point in taking any of his other meager possessions with him. He also didn’t relish the idea of leaving anything too personal in Quinlan’s apartment. While entirely well meaning, his friend was both nosy and a retro-cognitive. And as far as Obi-Wan was concerned, Quin had already seen too much. Too many accidental touches of Obi-Wan’s clothes and possessions that let him see the unfortunate truth about Qui-Gon, let him feel Obi-Wan’s pain.

With the rations bars stuffed in his robe pockets, Obi-Wan took a quick glance around the room he had called home for most of his life.

He wondered if he would ever see it again.

Of course, if Qui-Gon was right, he might not survive the Trials. He might be dead within the week.

_But if he did..._

Obi-Wan tried to shut out the small flutter of hope in his chest. If he succeeded- if he was Knighted- perhaps his Master would be convinced. Perhaps he could still make Qui-Gon proud. He tried to imagine putting his severed braid in Qui-Gon’s big hand, such a different context than how he’d gripped it only moments before...

Refocusing, Obi-Wan set about his last task. Qui-Gon had no doubt locked both doors on his way out. But since updating and repairing the locks in their apartment had alway been Obi-Wan’s responsibility, he had no doubt he could reset them in time. And if all else failed, his lightsaber still hung reassuringly at his side. That, at least, was always his own.

He set to work on the door lock, his hands steady and assured. _He could do this. He_ had _to do this._ Passing the Trials was his only hope now.

He would become a Jedi Knight- or die trying.

 

* * *

 

 

**One Month Later**

**37BBY**

 

Mace Windu waited in the ceremonial chamber of the Tranquility Spire, surrounded by other Council members. Some had died or retired in the years since the Zygerria incident; there were one or two new faces. Most notably, his own former Padawan, Depa Bilaba. The nature of the Council had changed. There was less discord, the fighting of the tumultuous case mostly forgotten.

But more pressing at the moment was the absence of one Qui-Gon Jinn.

Mace couldn’t say he was surprised. He, along with a coalition of allied Council members, had pushed a majority in favor of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s recommendation for the Trials of Knighthood. _Without_ Master Jinn’s approval.

It went against tradition, to raise a Padawan to Knighthood without their own Master’s blessing, and was difficult- requiring unanimity among both the Council, and members of the Master’s lineage. But with a grudging, distant approval wrangled from Kenobi’s grand-Master, Yan Dooku, Mace had managed to push it through.

But even in the most extreme cases- usually when a Master and Padawan were _too_ close, too attached for the teacher to be willing to let go of the student- the Master was at least _there_. The only times any of the present Councilors had attended a Knighting ceremony where the yet-to-be Knight was not attended by their Master, it was due to a death, which came with its own set of protocols.

Still in their pre-ceremony positions, most of the members were socializing in gossipy murmurs.

Mace was... Not exempt. He and Plo were silent, mostly exchanging judgemental glances of the same mind about Jinn’s absence, but Depa and Adi alongside them were talking, making gentle remarks about young Kenobi’s progress, his Trials- and his stay in the Healer’s wing.

Yoda’s stick rapped against the floor, a loud noise that made every member of the Council- all of them half-raised by the old Master- jolt.

“Almost time, it is.” He said, nodding towards the window- it was nearly dawn. “Not forgotten your places, have you?”

There were a few murmurs of “Yes, Master” as the assembled took their places- standing equidistant from one another around the circle, around the symbol of their Order.

Master Yoda still stood out of place, looking around the circle- and at the empty spaces. His own, as head of the Order. And the empty place where the yet-to-be-Knight’s Master was meant to stand. A small sigh came from him.

“A fool, my grand-Padawan may be.” He said. “A fool, even I may be. But leave this child to be Knighted by no one, I cannot.”

Leaning heavily on his stick, Yoda took a place halfway between his own spot, and the space meant for the Knighted’s Master.

Mace glanced around the circle, nodding encouragingly, and watched as the assembled Masters shuffled to keep themselves the same distances apart. Privately, he was squirming at the break in tradition- when a Master died before their Padawan’s Knighting, their space was left empty to represent the loss- but he refused to show it. They _would_ fill Qui-Gon’s place, both in the circle and in guidance to young Knight Kenobi.

He lighted his saber, ready for the ceremony. The sun was just barely peeking between the gaps in the buildings on Coruscant’s horizon, meaning the droid must have already alerted Padawan Kenobi to begin his ascent up the stairs. In a chorus of familiar noise, the other Masters lit their own blades, and the circle sang in a harmony of kyber-crystal tones.

Mace allowed the sentimentality of the moment to flow through him. He _loved_ this- their tradition, their ceremony, their Order. He held it close to his heart, and then breathed, letting it go, handing it over to the Force to be rolled and turned in its flowing current. He felt an answering joy echo around the circle, tightly linked in the Force.

And a small flame, ascending, getting closer. Mace’s heart ached for the flickering light of Kenobi’s spirit, so dim and pained, but resilient.

In the circle of Masters, there was a sorrow that he’d rarely felt at a Knighting. It was a sweet, aching grief, but it was more bitter than the pride and joy that should have heralded Knight Kenobi’s new stage of life in their Order.

 _we are sorry_ , sang the crystals. _you have done so well! come so far! but o, we are so sorry._

In the doorway, Mace could see- feel- Kenobi’s arrival. His vision was too bright, too saturated, with the mental link heightening his connection to the Force, and he felt as much as saw young Obi-Wan’s face fall. He knew their positions in the circle.

He knew where his Master wasn’t.

The small candle flame of his heart flickered once, twice, off-beat and pained.

As one, the gathered Council felt tears well up in the eyes of the boy whose Master had failed him. Could feel his shame and his fear. His grief.

Obi-Wan’s eyes closed. After a long night of meditation in the Knight’s Chamber, he was tired and sore, but he could sense the light of the circle before him. His awareness, his consciousness, everything that made him his own unique being, started to flow and shift. Malleable from his long night, he joined the strange secondary awareness of the circle, feeling new and green among the seasoned Masters.

 _yes. ours._ sang the crystals. _you are ours, you belong here._

His hand let go of the doorway, and he half-floated to the center of the circle. Tears spilled down his face, but his spirit was rejoicing in the feeling of being _whole._

Obi-Wan Kenobi knelt in the middle of the circle, his breathing steady, his tears drying. In the Force, he felt like a young sapling in a tall, ancient forest.

Mace saw the boy’s hand twitching, the newly-lost two fingers on his right hand clicking as the prosthetics fell into place. From only a few feet in front of the boy, he could feel their itching strangeness as if it were his own hand.

He swallowed. It was time.

“Who here,” Mace said, “seeks the title of Knight of the Jedi Order?”

Young Obi-Wan separated from the mass consciousness in the Force long enough to realize he was meant to speak. “I do.” He rasped, his voice hoarse with tears and a long night of silence.

“You swear the courage to defend the defenseless, regardless of their station, morals, power or powerlessness, with all the strength in your blade and body?”

“I do.” Kenobi was swaying faintly with the hum of the crystal song, his eyes half-closed. Mace had presided over many Knightings, all of them holy and joyful and glorious, but something about this young man touched him deeper than most. He had _suffered_ , come closer to leaving the Order more times than nearly anyone else still living, and yet here he was. Mace felt a pride that should have been Qui-Gon’s to feel.

“Do you swear the compassion to help any you come upon that may ask for aid, even to your own detriment, and to trust the Force as you may weigh life against life for the greater good?”

“I do.”

“And do you swear,” Mace said, his mind unwittingly conjuring an image of an underweight thirteen-year-old fresh from Melida/Daan, “the _commitment_ to do as you believe the Force wills, to walk this path your whole life, attached to none but the Force which is life itself?”

He saw Obi-Wan wince as the thought of his younger self echoed out into the circle, and felt his chest expand with surprised emotion as every other mind in the room felt great sadness at the image of the young, miserable boy- an image that Obi-Wan himself considered with nothing short of _revulsion-_ before it floated away into the neutrality of the Force.

“I swear.” Obi-Wan said. “I swear courage, compassion, and commitment. I swear peace and serenity, knowledge and wisdom, my blade and my heart. To the Force and the Jedi. As long as I live.” He spoke the ritual words steadily, his earlier anxiety that he might stutter forgotten.

As he spoke, the Council members behind him began deactivating their blades, silence invading the harmonized noise of the crystals. Around the circle, lightsabers turned off, until the only one left was Yoda’s. He stepped forward.

“Then a Knight, you shall be.” He raised his shota blade, and Obi-Wan shut his eyes very fast as the yellow glow came close.

With the faintest scent of burning hair, the braid was severed.

Knight Kenobi opened his eyes to find his Padawan braid clenched in his fist, caught on reflex. The spare strands of it catching in the metal of his new fingers.

He looked up, clearly unsure. During a normal Knighthood, he would remain kneeling, presenting the braid to his Master as a mark of respect, but- Qui-Gon Jinn was not here to give it to. Eyes darting, he looked from Yoda, to Plo Koon, and settled his gaze on Mace.

The injured hand holding the Padawan braid twitched in Mace’s direction.

For a split second, he considered taking it. For years he’d twisted himself into knots trying to keep this boy safe, trying to fix the system that had failed him so badly. But Mace knew full well that too many of those actions had been behind the scenes, most unknown to the boy himself. He did not want that all-important symbol because Knight Kenobi was panicking and couldn’t fathom _not_ giving his braid to someone.

Very aware of all the other eyes in the room on him, he took the long steps forward to the center of the circle, holding Obi-Wan’s gaze as he knelt down to meet him. Stretching his hands out, he folded Obi-Wan’s fingers around the long braid.

“This,” he said, “is yours. You earned it. You gave this everything you had, every bit of determination and stubbornness. This is _your_ achievement, not anyone else’s.”

The young man’s jaw clenched, tears shining in his eyes as he set his face in a determined mask. “Thank you, Master.” He said tightly.

Mace stood, his hands still wrapped around Obi-Wan’s, pulling the young Knight to his feet. With the awkward circle broken, at Master Yoda’s nod, the other Masters began to mill about and talk.

Obi-Wan jumped as a clawed hand settled on his shoulder. “Congratulations to the new Knight.” Plo said, the joy in his voice obvious even through the vocoder. “Do you know where your new quarters will be yet?”

“I- I confess I don’t, Master.” Obi-Wan stuttered, looking bewildered. It wasn’t usual for anyone to move out the day of their Knighting, but with this amount of discord between Master and Apprentice, Mace had already gotten Kenobi’s new apartment assigned.

“‘ll be receiving the room number soon,” Mace volunteered. “I’ll send it to your comm and you can go right there.”

“Convenient,” Plo put in, his arm now all the way around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “One of us can even walk with you. I sense housewarming gifts in your future, young Obi-Wan.”

Knight Kenobi gave him a frankly impressive side-eye, still standing straight and tense. “Why do I feel as though I’m being ganged up on?”

“Because you are,” said Depa from behind him, touching his arm with a wry smile. “Congratulations, Knight Kenobi. Your records are exceptional. Let me know your apartment number, and I will come by with one of those housewarming gifts.”

Obi-Wan watched her swan away, her robes billowing in just the understatedly dramatic way Mace had taught her, and his mouth contorted until it was pressed into a tight line.

Mace looked at Plo, gesturing his head towards the door. The young man seemed overwhelmed. Plo nodded back, already steering Obi-Wan to walk out, and Mace joined at his other side.

“Why are you doing this for me?” Obi-Wan asked as they went through the large doorway together. His voice was thick, head lowered. “Why me?”

“Who else?” Plo asked philosophically. Mace stayed silent, juggling the comm unit, the room assignment, and the mission assignment; he would have to manage things carefully for this day to end without any dramatics.

“Yes, but...” Obi-Wan stopped on the stairs, pressing his fingers to his mouth as though they might stop whatever emotional words were brewing. Mace and Plo turned to look, watching him think.

Plo took a step, standing on the same stair as young Kenobi as he searched for the right words.

“No other Padawan has merited this much attention from the Council. Not in years. Many students who are more adept, more talented than I... And yet...” He gestured to them, clear in his meaning- a Knight of ten minutes being escorted by two Council members. Three, if Depa was following.

Then he gestured his hands back at _himself_ , and Mace could only guess at what he thought they saw. Probably nothing pleasant; after years of mistreatment, he did not appear to think of himself well.

Mace sensed some annoyance in himself directed at Obi-Wan and his omnipresent anxiety. Had he not paid any attention to that ceremony? All his accomplishments, the obstacles he had overcome?

Shaking his head, he let it go. This would have to be an issue for another day.

“I don’t know of any way to convince you of your value, Knight Kenobi,” he said instead. “And I’m certainly not going to _argue_ with you about it. But regardless of your opinion, we are here, and we are here to stay.”

Mace felt more than saw Plo’s gaze on him, and shrugged in his direction. If Plo wanted to argue with Kenobi about what a terrible Jedi he was until the Knight worked himself into a frenzy, that was his prerogative. But Mace wanted no part in it. He turned, walking down the stairs slowly enough that Plo and Obi-Wan could catch up after they had their moment.

Plo’s sigh rattled through his rebreather. “He is right.”

Mace heard them start down the stairs behind him, and slowed. He was still trying to arrange Kenobi’s new room assignment with Jinn’s mission, trying to get the practicalities together without any kind of scene. Slowing down, he punched at his itinerary, trying to re-order things until he had enough time to do what needed doing.

Plo and Obi-Wan gave him a bit of a berth as they passed him on the stairs, young Kenobi still mired in his self-loathing. Rather too obviously for Mace’s taste.

As they passed, Plo craned his head around for a distinct look at the datapad.

“Ah!” He exclaimed. “You have had Knight Kenobi’s room assignment sent to you already, Mace.”

Mace stifled a long-suffering sigh. “Yes. But I do have a mission assignment to take care of first...”

“Perhaps,” Plo said, keeping one clawed hand anchored on Obi-Wan’s shoulder so he couldn’t keep walking without them, “I could escort Knight Kenobi to his new rooms, as you finish up your mission assignment.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Mace said. He deliberately did not look at Kenobi’s offended face as Plo manhandled him. Even with many long years of experience holding a stern expression through any trial, he didn’t need the temptation to smile at the tender picture. “And the meeting itself is in his _old_ living quarters. Obi-Wan, if there’s no objection on your end, I could pick up your belongings while I’m there.”

Obi-Wan turned to him, his eyes wide and frustrated, and Mace buried his gaze in the datapad again as he felt the beginnings of a smile twitching at his lips.

“Are you two going to keep.... _doing_ this?” He asked, still getting somewhat dragged as they began walking again, leaving the spire and now entering a main hallway. The sunlight was thin and early, reflecting the bright stone of the tall pillars and lighting up dust motes coming off of the ancient carpeting.

“Yes,” Mace stated, at the same time as Plo answered with, “Doing what?”

Kenobi planted his feet, stopping to the side of the hall, and Mace and Plo exchanged a charged _Look_ between themselves and the young Knight’s stubborn-set jaw. Clearly he wasn’t moving till they explained themselves.

Mace had a rather unwelcome feeling of familiarity, recalling his own old Maser’s machinations. Yoda had used to move him like a dejarik piece when he was a young Knight, manipulating everything from his missions to his teachers and even his friends, until Mace was fairly ready to scream.

This time, he didn’t suppress his urge to sigh. He stepped forward, close enough to speak at a very low volume.

“My apologies for meddling,” he said brusquely, getting it out of the way, “but after this morning- after _everything_ , do you really want to go back and barter for your things?”

The line of Kenobi’s jaw clenched, and Mace could almost hear his teeth grinding. Looking away, Obi-Wan shook his head.

“I can get whatever you want out of there.” Mace promised, certain he could at least leverage his position as head of the Council if his former friendship wouldn’t do the trick. “Whether or not Qui-Gon knows about it.”

“I...” Obi-Wan started, wavering. “I don’t have much.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to hire a hauling crew,” Mace admitted with a degree of humor.

Most Jedi had very little trouble with the fine print of the no-possession doctrine- it made allowances for clothing, blankets, hobby items, and things with practical use; even most objects with sentimental value were quietly overlooked. The Council had more important things to focus on than seasoned Masters filling their apartments with the detritus of a life well lived. For a new Knight just starting out alone it would be rare to have more than a few boxes. Mace could requisition a droid if there was more than an armful.

“And I will take you to your new quarters in the meantime, Knight Kenobi,” Plo said, coming up behind Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

Obi-Wan’s eyes closed. He was beginning to look tired. Mace could remember the day of his own Knighting, the fuss and congratulations when all he’d really wanted was a nap to make up for being awake all night. And he would be willing to bet that Kenobi hadn’t slept well in a long time.

“I don’t have many clothes,” Obi-Wan said. “Or anything else, really. Master can tell you which things are mine. My only other possession is a box in my closet. It’s in the back, sort of... hidden.” He grimaced.

“I’m far more concerned about your right to privacy than any kind of rules about contraband,” Mace reassured him. “Besides, confiscating illicit material or dormitory wine is too far below my pay grade to care.”

Kenobi raised an eyebrow. “Dormitory wine?”

Turning him gently in the direction of his new rooms, Plo started walking Obi-Wan towards his new career. “You should have seen the operation that a certain Padawan was running out of his refresher. It took Yoda and I _months_ to find out where the supply chain started.”

“It was hardly an _operation_ ,” Mace protested, lagging behind them. The turn to get to Qui-Gon’s room wasn’t for a while. He had time to walk. “Brewing dorm wine under my sink for a few of my friends wasn’t an _operation_.”

Plo turned to Obi-Wan. “He disabled the sonic shower, and was growing three fruit trees in the stall. _Three_.” Kenobi choked on a laugh, glancing back at Mace.

He was smiling. In the bright morning sunlight, in the beautiful hall of his beloved Temple, Mace had hope that they could wrestle far more smiles out of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

 

* * *

 

Mace breathed deep as he knocked on the door. _Let go of anger, let go of resentment. Feel the flow of life in Temple, all in perfect harmony._

Perfect harmony evaporated depressingly quick when Qui-Gon Jinn opened the door. Mace sighed. He would have a headache after this, he just knew it.

Qui-Gon didn’t look all that harmonious himself. His beard was overgrown and messy, with stubble around his jaw that was usually shaved clear. His eyes were bloodshot, too, as though he’d sat the long Knight’s vigil with Obi-Wan.

 _Not that he could be bothered to show up this morning_ , Mace thought, and then breathed it away. It was petty, and he was not going to be petty.

Not out loud, anyways.

“Good morning, Master Jinn,” he said. Sometime over the years, as their friendship had faded and a rift of distrust had grown between them, they’d retreated to titles and last names. Mace couldn’t remember when exactly it had happened.

“Master Windu,” Qui-Gon greeted in return, his voice was gravel-rough and low. “I would invite you to share my morning tea, but somehow I doubt that’s your purpose here.”

For the first time in years, Mace considered it. Finally, there was no quiet Padawan hidden in the other room. A Padawan who would likely see Mace taking tea with his Master and assume Mace was on his Master’s “side”. No longer was there the too-pale, too-thin student for Qui-Gon to casually berate. The student’s obvious humiliation coloring the air with awkwardness and leaving Mace struggling to diffuse his anger at his now-former friend.

Qui-Gon had been there, the morning of Mace’s own Knighting. Mace had stumbled out of the Tranquility Spire and found Qui-Gon waiting in the hall. The young and still-lanky knight had passed him one of the two mugs of spiked coffee in his hands before engulfing him in an enormous hug.

Staring at Qui-Gon now, Mace opened his mouth and nearly said _yes_ . But a split-second glance towards the bone-white tea set sparked a chance memory. _Padawan Kenobi, face-down on a medical bed, his back wrapped in thick white bandages._

And the words died in his throat. Mace closed his mouth, his stomach churning. He didn’t know how he could reconcile the boisterous young Knight in his memories with the grainy figure in the Zygerrian surveillance footage.

Mace knew his only chance at impartiality was to keep them utterly separate.

“No,” he managed. “That... isn’t what I’m here for.”

A disappointed, though not surprised expression set Qui-Gon’s features into an unfriendly mask. “That was my assumption.” He took a few heavy steps backwards, letting Mace enter the apartment.

It was quiet. Dim, too; some natural light made its way in around the blinds, mostly coming to rest on a few plants, but none of the artificial light was activated. Almost disturbingly clean- Qui-Gon had never been a tidy person by Mace’s reckoning, so he had a good guess as to who did the cleaning. The only thing out of place was a darkened patch on the carpeting- it looked as though someone had spilled tea there. The stain ran up the wall, as well.

Wordless, Mace headed for the Padawan’s bedroom off to the side. The door hung open, the lock disabled so entirely it wouldn’t even close. In fact, it looked like a small hole been burned through the unit... Mace side-eyed it, but knowing Qui-Gon was behind him did not make him want to comment. It was over; Obi-Wan wouldn’t be back here, Mace had made sure of that. So he passed it by as he stepped over the threshold.

Obi-Wan hadn’t been kidding. There was almost nothing.

Most Padawans figured out during adolescence that the bedding they got at Requisitions was substandard. The blankets were thin, the sheets rough. Mace knew well enough that there was a “black market” of sorts, of thick comforters, pillows, yarn for crocheting or knitting. The standard grade, least-comfortable bedding for Padawans was, according to the rules, a reminder of humility- but most Masters saw it as a small test of ingenuity, a test of _when_ they decided to break the rules, and whether they managed not to get caught.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had no extra blankets, and only Requisition-grade sheets. Jedi robes were thick, but Mace knew that the Temple could get quite cold at night, especially for someone as thin as Obi-Wan.

There was nothing on the walls. No shelves for books or hobby items. The nightstand held one drawer, the chrono, and one lamp.

It looked, frankly, like a first-year Padawan’s room, newly assigned. It was move-in pristine. Grimacing, Mace tried to imagine a late-stage Padawan spending time in this room, and couldn’t. There were no reminders of the long years of his apprenticeship, no indications of how he spent his time.

Before Mace’s Knighting, he’d had pictures up, a sketchbook out, basic saber form demonstrations scrolling on an open holocron that he watched when he couldn’t sleep. Qui-Gon’s room had always been a mess, but he’d usually had several teacups, small figurines, rocks, and plants lining the shelves.

When Obi-Wan had said, _I don’t have much,_ Mace had imagined only a few boxes. He mentally filed that down to one box. If that.

Crossing to the closet, he half expected all the belongings to be shoved in there. But it was just as empty. A small set of drawers against the back wall, but it only took up about half the space; the other half was bare carpet.

(And was it Mace’s imagination, or was the carpet... indented? He could almost see the pressure marks of someone sitting on the floor, hidden in the dark.)

Hanging up was one set of spare robes, two spare cloaks. No casual clothes, no cold-weather gear, no formal wear. Nothing but absolute bare-minimum Jedi standard.

Mace was all for rule-abiding students, but this was almost upsetting in its scarcity. The robes looked ripped and clumsily mended enough times that they should have been replaced twice over.

He sighed. Pulling the folded-down moving box out of his shoulder bag, he pressed the button to unfold it, and looked at the patched robes with distaste. Shaking his head, he left them on the hangers. Kenobi could requisition new robes. It might even seem a luxury.

The drawers were next. A few under-tunics, smallclothes, socks. He dumped them unceremoniously in the box. In the bottom drawer was a shoebox, and Mace moved it carefully, not sure if what it held was breakable. It rattled and tinkled, full of something that sounded delicate.

He tucked the socks around it in a bit of a pile, in case it was something Qui-Gon was not meant to know about.

“So he sent you here to get his things?”

Mace turned to look. Qui-Gon was leaning up against the door, watching him. Mace breathed. _Do not be petty._ Breaking eye contact, he grabbed one of the cloaks, and then the other, folding them into the box. It was still only half-full.

“I came,” he said, “to speak to you. And I am gathering his things in the interim.” Turning, he eyed the small drawer on the nightstand. He remembered a trick he’d used to use, when he felt the need to hide things as a Padawan.

“He-” Qui-Gon’s voice hitched, and he swallowed. “He should have come back himself.”

Mace made a non-committal noise, opening the drawer. It was empty. Reaching his hand in, he fiddled with the upper side, feeling the edges.

A small datapad dropped down into his hand, once he depressed the hidden magna-latch.

Pleased with his light detective work, Mace moved it to his other hand as surreptitiously as possible. “It is his choice what he does or does not do, Master Jinn. Especially now.”

Qui-Gon’s face paled, and Mace could see his eyes tracking the datapad. His misdirection had failed.

“That-” Qui-Gon breathed. He sounded almost frighteningly angry, his lip curling for just a moment. Mace nearly stepped back. “He dared...”

“To what?” Mace asked, trying to stare him down. He kept the datapad in his hand. “It’s not against regulation for Padawans to own personal tech, Qui-Gon.”

“Hiding things? Lying? Padawans are not meant to keep _secrets_ from their Masters.” Qui-Gon insisted. His anger seemed almost muted, but Qui-Gon’s Force shielding had always been excellent. “This is just another reason that I did not recommend him to be Knighted.”

“He passed the Trials.” Mace told him, trying to make his point. “That is proof enough of his worthiness.”

Qui-Gon cocked his head, his eyes wide and sarcastic. “Oh? And his injury? Does that, too, prove his _worth_? That never would have happened if he were truly ready.”

Mace grit his teeth. He supposed that at one point in his life he had found Qui-Gon’s argumentative nastiness amusing, when it was directed at one other than himself, but currently it made him want his former friend excommunicated. The urge to be petty in return was going to overflow, he just knew it. No one else in the galaxy had ever made him lose his temper the way that Qui-Gon did.

“What injury?” He asked, feigning sarcastic surprise.

Qui-Gon scoffed. “You can’t tell me you don’t _know_ , with all your hovering and meddling.”

“Do you?” Mace asked. Qui-Gon’s expression turned to confusion, and his temper mounted. “Do you even _know what his injury was?_ ” Mace trembled with the effort of keeping his voice low and controlled. He’d checked the records, and he knew Qui-Gon hadn’t visited his Padawan in the Halls of Healing. But to not know _at all_ , to just not _care..._

Mace had been in the observation room as they watched Kenobi’s marathon of a Trial of Skill, making his way through the long miles of simulated environment with a makeshift tourniquet on his hand, fighting his last opponent with tight calm and precision despite his injury. Plo had rushed to his side, afterwards. They’d retroactively dubbed it his Trial of the Flesh as well.

Qui-Gon shifted his gaze away, not responding.

Breathing through his anger, Mace dropped the datapad in his pocket, picking up the box and taking it to the refresher in case there was anything hidden in there.

At least Qui-Gon didn’t follow. Mace turned around in the small space, everything clean and neat, grabbing soaps and tooth-powder off the counter. The only indulgence seemed to be hair conditioner, hidden behind the pipes under the sink. He buried it in the folds of the cloak, trying to avoid giving Qui-Gon one more reason to lose his fragile temper.

Ten minutes into this visit and Mace was already sick of Qui-Gon acting like a youngling whose favorite toy had been taken away; he couldn’t imagine _living_ with it. Underneath his annoyance, an enormous amount of respect for young Kenobi’s patience and strength began to grow.

Leaving the bathroom with only a dusty bottle of half-used acne soap left behind, he was glad to see that Qui-Gon had left his former Padawan’s room and retreated. Mace collected himself before he walked out. He still had to give Qui-Gon his new mission assignment, and it wouldn’t work too well as a briefing if he threw it at his former friend’s head on his way out the door.

Qui-Gon was standing at the kitchen island when Mace emerged, his large hands cupped around a teacup big enough to be a bowl.

“He lost the last two fingers of his right hand in his Trial of Skill.” Mace said, staying very calm. “There was some shock, from the blood loss, but it was a clean cut. He was in and out in two weeks and he’s adjusted to the prosthetics quickly. He has an appointment next week to have the synthskin developed, because he requested they be covered.”

The silence stretched into a long pause as Qui-Gon sipped at the tea.

“Thank you,” he said, “for telling me. No one else did.”

“Perhaps because you didn’t ask.” Mace pointed out, maybe too sharply.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, looking pained. “Was there something you wished to speak to me about?”

Mace sighed. Here it was. At least he already had what he needed; getting thrown out would be much less disastrous now that he had Obi-Wan’s belongings packed up already. Pulling out the mission datapad, he booted up the files and set them on the counter.

“We have a diplomatic situation that needs resolving, not sure how long it will take. It’s deserving of a team with combined experience and delicate technique.” He said, choosing his words carefully as he took short steps towards the door.

Reading the files, Qui-Gon’s face froze into an incredulous mask. “A diplomatic mission... estimated length six months?”

Mace’s lips twitched. He picked up the box, holding it under one arm.

“Orto Plutonia is an _ice planet._ ” Qui-Gon’s voice was low and warning.

“It is,” Mace said. Some teenaged part of his brain found this highly amusing, but the rest of his attention was focused, rightly, on getting this resolved with minimal conflict.

The assignment hadn’t even been his idea. It was Yoda’s, really, the manipulative old troll managing to combine punishment and lesson so artfully it was difficult to decide which it was really meant to be.

“Mission partner-” Qui-Gon choked. “ _Yan Dooku_ \- I haven’t seen him in _years-_ ”

“Yes, Master Yoda is trying to get him back into the regular mission rotation.” Mace put in, still backing up. “Get his nose out of the history books for a while.”

Qui-Gon slammed the datapad down. “Mace! This is-” He gestured, anger and bewilderment and _hurt_ on his features. “How long have you been waiting to drop this on me?”

Mace took the comment that first occurred to him ( _since Zygerria at least_ ), and stuffed it away. The second ( _I figured you could use an attitude adjustment_ ), he let go of as well. “Master Yoda thought that perhaps, the fractured relationship between the two of you is what has lead to your negative interactions with your own students.” Mace explained as gently as he could. “We are trying to heal this. So much wrong has been done that we cannot simply leave things as they are.”

“This is a petty vengeance.” Qui-Gon’s lips twisted. “You’re well aware we did not want to see one another.”

“On the contrary.” Mace stated. “When we commed him, Master Dooku seemed almost glad of the opportunity.”

Slamming his hand on the counter hard enough to make a startling noise, Qui-Gon stared straight at him. “The whole Council knew damn well I don’t want to see him! Jedi are not meant to hold grudges. Jedi are not meant to exact vengeance.” Placing both hands on the counter, Qui-Gon leaned forward. “For years, this Council has held _one mission’s_ mistakes over my head. My reputation, my standing, even my records have suffered.”

“Yes, how unfair,” Mace drawled. The sheer emotionalism of his former friend jarred him into speech without thought. “You almost beat your student to death _one_ time, and everyone holds it against you.”  

Qui-Gon turned away, not able to meet his eyes.

Pity and disgust mingled in his mind. On the one hand- Qui-Gon, his friend. Upset and isolated and faced with a prospect he had dreaded since the conclusion of his _own_ apprenticeship.

On the other hand. Obi-Wan’s devastated face as he walked into his own Knighting to discover himself abandoned by his Master. Tone-powder on his skin for years, disguising Force knew what kinds of marks. The desolate, empty bedroom behind him.

Qui-Gon looked up at him. “It’s been a hell of a thing to lose a friend over.” He said, his voice mournful. He looked at Mace, seeking sympathy, seeking connection.

Mace closed his eyes, trying to reach something like battle meditation; something to calm his emotions, settle his heart. He missed his friend. He missed the Qui-Gon Jinn he grew up with, got drunk with, occasionally fooled around with. His partner on as many missions as he could fit into both of their schedules, the person he trusted above all else to have his back. He grieved for the trust that had broken when he saw the security footage of his friend beating a defenseless child.

“I think I made the right choice,” Mace said definitively. Pulling up the weight of the half-full box of everything Obi-Wan Kenobi owned, he turned and walked out the door, leaving Qui-Gon in the empty apartment with the datapad and the cooling tea.

 

* * *

 

**Eighteen Months Later**

**36BBY**

 

Knight Kenobi’s quarters had been assigned, at Master Windu’s request, as far from Master Jinn’s as was available. His room was instead located much nearer to the primary refectory and the Room of a Thousand Fountains. After nearly a year and a half, Plo Koon had the walk there memorized.

Plo knocked, tucking the datapad under his arm. He had visited Obi-Wan often in the eighteen months since Kenobi had been on his own, becoming a near-fixture in the one-bedroom quarters. He had worried when young Obi-Wan appeared slow to take to the new living situations, but was now relieved to see that the knight had almost entirely settled in.

He hardly even flinched anymore when he heard footsteps in the hallway outside.

Plo waited a moment, and then the door opened to Obi-Wan, looking up at him with a hesitant smile. The young Knight stepped back, nodding in courtesy, welcoming Plo inside.

“Good morning, Master.” Obi-Wan stepped aside, leaving Plo room to move through the small entryway.

“How are you this morning, Obi-Wan?” Plo asked, closing the door behind him. He gave Obi-Wan a moment to take a few steps away, knowing the young Knight did not like having his space crowded.

“I’m- I’m alright.” Obi-Wan heistated, making his way around his small kitchen, the counters crowded with dishes. “Mostly alright,” he amended, “I’ve been feeling... odd for a few days, but it is easing.”

Plo nodded thoughtfully in response. After many long visits such as this, Obi-Wan had begun to open up to him. Letting down his guard, if ever so slightly, and letting Plo know some of his truth. It was a small confession, but Plo knew how difficult it was for the young man to admit to anything less than stoic perfection. Still afraid that any deficiency would be used against him.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Plo rattled through his vocoder, moving to the kitchen island. The remains of Obi-Wan’s breakfast were still there, an omelette mostly untouched and an empty cup of tea.

Plo took the other chair as he watched Obi-Wan putter about his kitchen contentedly, setting the auto-boiler to heat, measuring out more tea leaves.

It had taken him almost a year, but Obi-Wan Kenobi seemed very near to being happy.

Shortly after Obi-Wan had been knighted, Mace had put him into rotation for Temple duties. It wasn’t uncommon to keep new knights close to home for a month or so while they adjusted to their new independence. And Plo was very pleased to learn of Obi-Wan’s nine-month tenure on what was affectionately known as ‘youngling duty’.

Many new Jedi chafed under the assignment, stuck within the Temple walls training younglings in the fundamentals of the Jedi way wasn’t exactly the action or excitement they thought Knighthood would bring. 

But Kenobi had thrived, happy to spend the long hours teaching small, still-affectionate children their saber forms, then allowed to retire to his own bright, quiet, clean apartment. In fact, Obi-Wan’s nine months spent training a youngling class had done wonders for his nerves and his confidence.

Eventually, he was given his first mission. It was meant to be low-risk, but had quickly escalated (a minor quest to find a politician’s runaway daughter had turned into a rescue when she was found first by a drug cartel). Nevertheless, Knight Kenobi had handled it admirably. He was back on active duty now, with several more successful mission under his belt, but it had been the first that truly grew his self-confidence.

It was proof, real proof, that he was a Knight capable of handling himself when the situation changed, and it had shaped him into a bold and shining example of a new Jedi.

Plo watched him fondly, the young knight pouring out the hot water into the teapot, steeping the tea, setting the dishes aside. And finally, pouring out a cup for himself, and a small saucer for Plo to sip through the small intake valve in his rebreather. Obi-Wan moved gracefully, calm in the morning sunlight. Plo could almost forget the beaten and bloodied Padawan that still sometimes plagued his dreams.

Accepting his tea with a nod of thanks, Plo watched as Obi-Wan settled himself on the stool next to him. Content to eat and drink in silence for the moment.   

Looking around, Plo marveled at how much better the apartment looked; no longer all bare beige walls, a few paintings hung and caught the light with their natural colors, and Plo had a suspicion he knew whose works they were. No doubt Depa had pawned these paintings off onto unsuspecting Kenobi, her own walls likely running out of space.

Plo himself had a similarly styled landscape that hung in his apartment, made and gifted to him by none other than Jedi Master Mace Windu. His old friend had taken up oil painting around the time he was voted into the Council, though he insisted it was coincidental. Always an artist, he painted to deal with stress- and more stress meant more paintings. Eventually, the landscapes overflowed the walls of Mace’s apartment, and were given as gifts to his friends.

Plo allowed his gaze to drift past the scenic painting. Near the artwork were several shelves lined with seashells. It had been months in the new apartment before Obi-Wan had finally taken them from the safety of his tiny shoebox and, with some gentle encouragement from Plo, put them on display.

On the nearby windowsill plants hung and grew happily. There were herbs and small flowers and the thriving medicinal cactus that had been Plo’s housewarming gift to Obi-Wan. It was even starting to bud, showing the beginnings of a tiny flower.

Though subtle, the room was full of pleasant colors and life and growth.

“Ah,” Plo breathed, suddenly remembering the weight in his pocket, “Young one, I found you a gift.”

“Oh, no, Master, I-” Obi-Wan flushed, staring deeper into his teacup. “I couldn’t...”

But Plo waved off his protests. Digging a hand into his deep robe pocket, he drew it out; a large conch shell.

Obi-Wan’s seashell collection had always been all small shells, out of necessity so they could be hidden. But during one such vist like this, Obi-Wan confessed to Plo his wish for a large one. He had wistfully explained that one could hear the echoes of a room in them, and that it was said to sound like the ocean. Of course, Plo wasn't sure he had found the exact kind Obi-Wan spoke of, since he himself had no external ears to test it with, but he hoped Obi-Wan would enjoy it all the same.

Obi-Wan’s expression of heartbroken wonder was well worth the slight trouble of finding the conch. Plo pressed it gently into Obi-Wan’s small hands.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said, almost bewildered. He set it down next to his plate, resting a hand against its smooth surface.

Seeing Kenoi hold the shell, Plo was reminded of the day he had found Obi-Wan. The boy’s home village had been on the shore of an endlessly-crashing ocean. And now, to see shells such as the ones he’d crunched underfoot carrying the infant to the Temple, lining the young man’s home... He hoped it brought the Jedi some peace.

Peace that he might have to disrupt, Plo thought, considering the datapad he had in his other pocket. He’d gotten the Council’s report, and come straight here.

But it could wait. He sipped the tea in the saucer, and asked Obi-Wan about the students from his saber class- they were officially out of his care, but he often saw the one or two he had bonded well with in the halls.

Obi-Wan was well into a story about a little Twi’lek boy named Nollie- whose only goals in life seemed to be learning Jar’kai, and to win extra sweets off his friends by betting them he _couldn’t_ do seven backflips in a row- when he swung his arm out a bit too far and knocked his water glass onto the floor.

It shattered with a startlingly loud noise, making them both jump.

All at once, Obi-Wan froze, his face tight. In a flash, he had his hands raised, covering- oh. Covering his head. Protecting himself.

Feelings of anger and discomfort roiled in Plo’s chest, but he left them to rest. They weren’t important just now. Moving slowly, he got up from his chair, retrieving a pair of Obi-Wan’s shoes from next to the door- he did not want his charge to be stuck on the stool with glass all on the floor- and when he returned, Obi-Wan had his arms lowered.

Defeat rolled off of his aura in the Force, and he avoided looking at Plo, who didn’t mind. Busying himself with the cleaning, he told himself it was only practical- his claws were not susceptible to cuts the way Obi-Wan’s delicate fingers were.

When the largest pieces of glass were picked up and discarded, Plo stopped resisting the temptation to speak. “It is all right.”

“It-” Obi-Wan started, sounding frustrated. He breathed in and out, steady meditative breathing, and began again. “Yes. It’s alright, and- no one was hurt. So it’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

Stooping down to grab the shoes Plo had deposited under his seat, he mumbled a “ _thank you_ ” as he trotted over to the tiny hall closet. The vacuum bot whirred out with a friendly little beep, but Obi-Wan ignored it, just pointing the thing to the mess that had yet to be cleaned up.

Plo, for his part, was starting to wash the dishes.

Under the whirring noise of the vacuum bot and the running water, Plo heard Obi-Wan sigh as he sat back down.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Plo only hummed in response, rinsing out the teapot. He deliberated how exactly to bring up the news of the man who had ingrained that flinch response into him. The reaction to a simple broken glass was a heavy reminder of what exactly that meant for the young Knight’s sense of safety.

With no more dishes to do, Plo turned the water off, and pressed the ‘return’ button on the vacuum bot as well on his way around the counter. As the cheerful sounding little bot returned home to its space in the closet, Plo settled himself, breathing deeply.

“I do have unfortunate news.” He began.

Obi-Wan didn’t look up, his his forehead in his hands. “Oh. How wonderful”

Plo took the datapad out of his pocket, laying it down on the cool countertop. “Master Jinn’s ship will dock within the next day.” He said. “The Orto Plutonia mission is officially concluded, and he will likely be in the Temple consistently for a week or so, until he requests to be put back on the mission roster.”

Very still but for the rapid blinking of his bright blue eyes, Obi-Wan looked up to search Plo’s mask for more information.

“It took almost three times longer than expected.” Plo explained. There wasn’t much more to tell- but it felt right to keep talking until Obi-Wan was ready to respond. “The Talz proved uncooperative, combative even. I’m given to understand that Masters Jinn and Dooku were forced to developed a functional working relationship over the course of the mission.”

“They-” Obi-Wan’s voice cracked, and he stopped, swallowing before he started again. “They said he was going to be back after six months.”

“They did.” Plo said. “It happened to take longer.”

“I _thought_ ,” Obi-Wan emphasized, “that he was _already_ back.” There was a slight tremble in his voice, and he stilled his twitching hands as he stood up to pace.

Plo stayed silent, letting him work through his nerves. He trusted that Obi-Wan was Knight enough to manage his own emotions, and quite honestly, had a right to a private bad reaction.

“I thought he’d- he’d just been wandering the halls and I’d never encountered him.” Obi-Wan explained almost off-handedly, taking quick steps between the countertop and his sofa and back again. “With our living quarters so far apart... But no. Now he _will_ be back. Now, he’ll be in the halls, or in the refectory or the gardens and I’ll- I’ll _see_ him-”

His voice broke as he braced his arms against the back of his sofa, staring very hard at the painting on his wall- a waterfall on Listoria. Plo had been there with Mace, had watched him snap a still photo of the falls to paint later; he’d said it would be a good fit for his biggest frame.

Plo walked over, hesitating on whether he should reach out. Obi-Wan often reacted badly to touch- but on the occasions when he didn’t, he leaned into another being’s hands like a tooka soaking up warmth. But the lines of his body were too tense, and Plo hung back.

“No one could blame you for having a... reaction.” Plo tried to soothe him.

Obi-Wan pushed off from the couch roughly, backing up almost to his door. Pacing mindlessly, he made his way in a circle from the door to the hall, past his bedroom, around to the other side of the sofa. “I would. I would blame myself, if I had some- some kind of _breakdown_.” Rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, Obi-wan turned to the painting, like the delicately layered oil paints would provide answers. “I can’t, Master. I can’t afford to act like- like a victim. I can’t bear to be that.”

Stepping closer, Plo stretched a hand out- not to touch, but to show a willingness to reach out. “I do not look at you and see only a victim. No one who knows your story could.”

“They-” Obi-Wan scuffed a toe against the carpet. “Out there, though. Many of them think...” He let the sentence hang.

“Fools think many things.”

“I... You’re right.” Tracing delicate fingers against the cheap plastoid frame, Obi-Wan breathed deep. “I was Knighted. I was Knighted, I deserved it, and I’m bloody well going to _act_ like it.”

Plo was within arm’s reach, but he didn’t move closer. Not yet. “You do good work. You have risen so far.” Pushing into the Force the honesty that he could not show in his eyes, Plo tilted his head towards his charge. “I am very proud of you, now and always.”

His eyes closing, Obi-Wan leaned towards him. With a sense of victory, Plo closed an arm around his shoulders, feeling him relax into the contact, the sunlight, the still and peaceful morning.

It was so different, Plo reflected, from the first few times he’d embraced this Jedi; from his first trip to the Temple, and then to the injured, emotional teenager he had been after Zygerria. The scars on his back were healed, but there were scars in his mind, too- less easily repaired. Fear had made its mark on him.

And though some might say it made him a less effective Jedi, Plo had watched his Trials, had observed his missions. He had faith that his terrible experiences had given Obi-Wan not only scars, but a far greater gift- compassion. Something that the Council as a whole were losing respect for.

Obi-Wan had weathered many things, endured more than a young body should be asked to. But Plo Koon had absolute confidence that, because of the many obstacles he’d faced, Obi-Wan could never refuse compassion, not even to the lowest of individuals in this cruel Galaxy.

Briefly, Plo tried to peer a little further into the Force, to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead. Plo sincerely hoped the future would be kinder to Obi-Wan than the past had been.

But the future was cloudy, not just for the Knight in his arms, but for all Jedi- for the whole galaxy.

All he could sense was Obi-Wan’s life force stretching out over the decades, and the vague impressions of joys and triumphs and pains and sorrows.

_So many sorrows..._

Plo tugged Obi-Wan a little closer. The boy deserved a happy life, but shadows hung too heavy on the future, and Plo found no comfort staring into them. Even Jedi masters couldn’t know what the future held.       

But Plo didn’t need to look any further than the Jedi standing next to him to know that Obi-Wan would do great things- and better yet, simple _good_ things _._

And perhaps along the way, Obi-Wan would even learn to care for himself the same way he cared for others, be able to extend the same sort of compassion he felt for street urchins and slaves to the boy he used to be.  

Plo knew he couldn’t teach Obi-Wan those lessons, but he hoped there was someone still out there who could.

It was with solemnity that Plo let go of Obi-Wan, allowing him to stand on his own once again.

Obi-Wan would go on to do a great many thing and help a great many people, Plo was sure, he just hoped that one of the people Obi-Wan saved would be himself.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention this took _forever_ to write? Thank all you beans for following along, and coming with us on this awful, awful journey. Your kind words meant everything to us.
> 
> And if inspiration and work ethic collide for my co-author and I again- there may well be a sequel in the works... I wonder what happens during that pesky "diplomatic" mission to Naboo? Surely nothing could go... _wrong_?


End file.
